The Greater Good
by SweetSagets
Summary: Many bold sacrifices were made to preserve the American way of life. The Great War was a way of cleaning the slate and leaving us to wonder, what happened so quickly as to destroy such a fragile world?
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

The Greater Good

Chapter 1: Prologue

"Boots on the ground. All callsigns Autumn through Diego you are clear to engage! I say again, green light!" the radio hummed to life aboard the Vertibird. Even though the technology was still in its infancy, the XVB02 Vertibird was a solid gunship and very reliable in a gunfight. Upon this radio chatter, the rear door of the Vertibird kicked open and the squad of Army Rangers stormed out of the aircraft onto the harsh Mongolian desert, Old Glory on their darkened power armors glistening under the bold Mongolian sun. Their callsign was Bear.

"Come on people, we gotta hustle! We got ten mikes before the Florida Everglades look like this God-damned desert!" First Sergeant Bradley barked. The Chinese and the Americans were not in a talking mood any longer. Even though this was being actively settled today as the Resource Wars dragged on, such desperation quickly encouraged political pressure against both sides as both countries tried desperately to maintain their old way of life. Although peace talks were in progress, multiple theaters were still engaged with active military combat.

The Rangers were typically considered light-infantry in the military, however, with their newly created powered armor, they could just as easily become a heavy assault force.

"Johnson, we got a Silo ahead! Come on! Let's get there!" Bradley shouted. The desert was quickly becoming a whirlwind behind them as sand led to concrete. In front, a large bunker stood. In the middle, a Tse-tung class ICBM stood menacingly within its metal prison. A booming Chinese voice spoke. Johnson didn't even dare to switch on his translator, ignorance is bliss.

"Well fuck my balls in a knot, Cheng sure is compensating for something, isn't he?" Davidson joked.

"Come on, we gotta shut this thing off!" Bradley cried. Johnson immediately hopped to the nearest computer and held his wrist to it. His Pip-boy 3000E flashing to life as it attempted to bypass firewalls. The crackle of fire arms heard in the distance. "Rangers, defensive positions! Cover him!" Bradley shouted. A charismatic leader, Bradley easily was able to maintain his calm under normal combat circumstances.

This was not a normal circumstance.

"Diego is down, I repeat, Diego is down, Autumn, go secure the package!" the SOCOM radio hissed.

"This is Autumn 0-1, we are under fire from multiple sides! We cannot maintain mission posture! Requesting immediate fire support!" a different voice replied on the radio.

"Autumn is under severe assault, Hawk 2-5, can you provide close air support?"

"This is Hawk 2-5, weapons are hot for immediate strike. Time to target fifteen seconds." There was a loud explosion in the sky and bits of debris rained on the team. As if on queue, Bradley's own team came under fire from combatants within the bunker.

"COME ON JOHNSON, GET THIS FREAKING SHOW ON THE ROAD! LET'S GO!" Bradley ordered. His AER9 Laser Rifle emitting its red-hot brilliance. As Johnson continued to decode the encryption on the ICBM, he continued to look at his squad-mates. They appeared calm and collected, but that was likely only a result of the awe-inspiring armor. He could tell they were beginning to get worried as they began to pull the trigger more frequently.

The first one to be wounded was Davidson. A sharp thump of a Gauss Rifle sounded as a high velocity round tore through Davidson's leg. Even with state of the art armored plating, the round easily cleaved his leg clean off. Davidson staggered to the ground and swore.

"GOD damn it! Fuck that is going to need some stitches!" He swore as he continued to fire his weapon. Johnson admired his bravery as even though he lost a leg, and likely the shock was beginning to set in, he kept firing. Perhaps it was the high dosage of Med-X he had received from his armor to keep fighting, maybe it was just pure balls, but regardless, Davidson kept fighting. As he fought, the loss of blood was quick and significant, and his suit was too damaged to put a clamp on the bleeding. Davidson bled out quickly and profusely on the hard concrete. Jefferson pulled him out of the line of fire, took off Davidson's helmet and pocketed his dog tags. He quickly made a cross over the head of Davidson, then resumed fighting.

Johnson's heart was pounding to the point where his armor's metabolic scans thought he was having an allergic reaction and his armor secreted a small dosage of Buffout to help with his immune system. As the loading bar nearly reached the end of his Pip-Boy, an exclamation mark appeared along with red words.

.ERROR:/PROTOCOL_783-7b

It was too late. The missile was too far along. Davidson had carried the only countermeasure should the missile launch, but that was now in multiple pieces beside his right leg. Johnson's heart plummeted and he could hardly think. The Chinese forces were cheering and shouting various praises.

Johnson got on the radio.

"Zulu Actual, this is Bear 1-4, the principal is away, I say again the principal…is…away."

"Understood Bear 1-4. May God help all of us."


	2. Chapter 2: Homefront USA

Chapter 2: Homefront USA

**For all of ya'll still reading, I want you to know that you're beautiful. For all of you who may have just tuned in, you too are beautiful. The following chapter takes place three months prior to what was known as "The Great War". Again, there will be some heavy Fallout-universe lingo for you hardcore fans to enjoy. For the less hardcore fans who are just here for a pleasure read, if I seem to use too much fancy schmancy terminology for you to read comfortably, please leave a review explaining this to me so I can better help your reading experience. Ciao!**

During all other military conflicts in American history, the only thing the populace ever had to fear was that of either being drafted, or losing a loved one to a war. This war was far different. Johnson had a standard two week furlough starting in June where he would be able to visit his hometown of Cincinnati. This was a grand time for many reasons. Being able to simply take two weeks away from the absolute shitstorm engulfing the world right now was gladly welcomed. Being a Ranger, he was normally the first with boots on the ground in some godforsaken third-world country. Some time with his family enjoying the luxuries of the 21st century and catching up on all his Reds news would be all too refreshing.

_Bing-Bong! _The annoying beep from the aircraft signaled his arrival in Cincinnati. Johnson never did enjoy flying on commercial airplanes, especially with the public of this day and age. Although America as a society was still very militaristic, and very much in love with the fought of fighting, they had grown to hate their government. There was simply no appeasing them. They expected easy access to resources for cheap prices, and for the government to take care of any conflicts they might have with other nations. They never did realize that currently the only place left in the world that had oil was a single rig out in the Pacific, nor did they realize that fighting a war with China would certainly _require_ the United States to bring back the draft. As Johnson stood up to leave his seat, which was akin to a rock right about now, he shot the rickety coach seats a dirty look, and attempted to stretch his very stiff legs and neck. When he rose, a young woman in her early twenties looked at him from across the aisle. She glared at him. Johnson shrugged since there was really nothing he could do. She glanced at the flag on the shoulder of his uniform multiple times. _So she hates me for fighting a war she doesn't want to fight, lovely. _Johnson thought to himself. He was never ashamed for being a soldier, no one ever should be ashamed for defending his or her country during her time of need. He still was a bit annoyed since she obviously had no idea what Johnson had been through for the past five months. From freezing his ass off in Anchorage, to the scorching heats of Kabul, to the unrelenting storms of Bombay, he had fought in multiple biomes for multiple reasons. He had seen some very messed up shit that would break any one of these daisy hugging hippies' hearts. Johnson shaked the thought and exited into the terminal. The terminal was eerily quiet at the hour of eleven in the evening. The only sounds were that of the cleaning crew preparing the airport for the next day, and that of heavy footsteps and hushed chatter among passengers. Johnson retrieved his bag, and found his way to his brother's Corvega waiting outside.

"Eric! Good to see you! How is kicking ass for Uncle Sam going?" his brother Todd asked.

"Like a barrel full of monkeys," Johnson sarcastically replied.

"Listen, ma will want to see you soon, I told her your flight doesn't land until tomorrow morning so I'll drop you off at your place. I'd imagine that Kristen and the kids will be glad to see you again any way."

"Yeah, Skype has a bad fucking connection in Alaska. Something to do with 'the ends of the Earth' and what not. I'm gonna rest until we get there, wake me up once we arrive, man." With that, Johnson narrowed his eyes and quickly dozed off.

_Hot, so very hot. A thousand suns beat upon Johnson's back. Such heavy heat, and there was not a single drop of water anywhere to be found. Johnson walked down a long road. The road was coarse, and crumbled after every step. The heat was unbearable and Johnson felt that the only thing keeping his legs moving, was his mind and his will to do so. His legs grew heavy as though he were moving on stilts made of lead. Finally! A mere puddle of water! Throat burning, Johnson bent down to drink the water. The water tasted as though it was burning, but the lack of bubbles suggested that it wasn't actually boiling. It stung his throat on the way down, and agony instantly set in. Johnson, feeling hopeless, kept walking. He saw a large city in the distance. As he began moving faster toward it, a tiger leaped out of the shadows near him and blocked his path. It let out a ferocious growl, and the city was engulfed in fire. Johnson could hear a million lives screaming at once, the sound was deafening. Just one solid body in a blood-curdling scream_ _he felt the Tiger push him over. _John woke suddenly.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, we're here. Now go inside and go to bed, you look exhausted from the flight," Todd opened Johnson's door and nudged him out. Johnson made a small mumble, then left and walked up to the door, his baggage slumped over his shoulder. He went up to the door, and at eleven thirty in the evening, he knocked on the door. His heavy fist woke up the dog, and it started barking. A light came on upstairs and some quick footsteps followed. A young woman came and opened the door.

"Eric!" The voice cried out. It was an immense satisfaction seeing his wife again for the first time in what felt like years. They embraced quickly.

"If you don't mind, your state is forty-two degrees in the middle of summer, please let me inside my own house," Johnson complained. His wife gladly let him in. "Babe, God, I missed you, I would love to sit down and chat, but..."

"Heavens, you look exhausted. Come on, let's go to sleep," she suggested. He dragged himself upstairs, and collapsed on his bed and immediately fell asleep. He didn't even change out of his uniform, his boots were still on which led to some awkward sleeping positions.

The phone jarred him awake for the second time that night. Caller ID identified it as an unknown number. Johnson answered it, half dead.

"Hello?"

"Yes, may I speak to a Staff Sergeant Eric H Johnson?"

"This is him, what do you want?"

"Sergeant, this is Colonel Jeff LeRoy of the United States Army, I need to meet with you at Fort Dix at the earliest convenience. It is a matter of National Security."

"Yes, sir." Johnson glanced at the clock, it was six in the morning. "Sir, I can be there at thirteen hundred."

"Good son, I'll be waiting." The Colonel hung up first, and Johnson put the phone down.

_Damn it. Not even home for eight hours and I'm already leaving again. It happens at one, so I won't even be able to listen to the Reds – Astros game on the radio either. I love listening to the Reds beat up on the "Disastros". _Kristen had been awoken from the phone conversation too, and was reluctant, but understanding to let him go. She was one of the few people left in this world who understood the importance of loving and supporting both the government and the military. Johnson kissed her on the cheek, then got up. As he got ready to get dressed, he realized he was already wearing his uniform. The road to Dix would take five hours, plus whatever security and traffic there would be be on the way there. Johnson realized this, then got into his own Corvega and sped away.

"Son, I'm going to be very straight forward here," the Colonel stated, "things are looking good on the war with China, but at the same time, the chain of command is scared. China is getting desperate as we begin to launch surgical strikes against their homeland. The CiC fears that China might use nuclear weaponry to attack our soil. As you already know, Project Safehouse has already begun to spread across the land should China decide to retaliate against us. However, I have another matter that I need to discuss..." Colonel LeRoy slid a folder across the desk to Johnson. In large red print, it read "CLASSIFIED" Johnson opened it and it had a single piece of paper with a few photographs on it. It detailed something called Operation Eagle's Nest and it explained about how the United States government would be able to restore order following the possible apocalypse. A new body would be formed called "the Enclave" which would be both the pen and the sword of the United States.

"Should you accept this offer, we can offer you many things. First of all, as a member of the Enclave, your family would be granted safe-haven at our base in Raven Rock. A large military bunker near D.C. In terms of defense and luxury, it offers more than a standard Vault-Tec Vault, and would allow them to be spared should push come to shove."

"Easy enough, what's the catch?" Johnson inquired, skeptical.

"No catch, you simply keep doing what you are doing now, and should the end come, you will become one of the Enclave's first soldiers. You will have the honor of being handpicked for such an assignment, and you would be placed with some of the finest soldiers in the country to follow your command."

"Well why me? Aren't there plenty of other more worthy candidates? West Point grads, Navy SEALs, Delta Force, etc?" Johnson raised an eyebrow. LeRoy chuckled.

"That, is for us to know. Now, please, accept the damn offer. We're offering a free 'get out of hell free' card. Do you really want your family disintegrated when the bombs hit?" The amount of conviction that was in LeRoy's voice whenever he mentioned anything about the bombs was extremely unnerving. Johnson remembered that both Vaults 53 and 55 cost around the price of $100,000 for a single person to live there. A soldier's compensation was hardly enough to cover a single person, let alone the four people of his family. "So, will you sign the damn paper already?" Johnson thought long and hard about his action. The road home was much less uneventful than the time there. The Reds beat the Astros 3-0. Life was good.

The rest of his furlough was spent with his family as Johnson prepared for the journey ahead of him. It was the Fourth of July for all Americans to celebrate when his furlough had ended. Johnson, however, was boarding a flight back to God knows what hellhole awaited him. His flight had a connection in Denver, a decent sized airport with all the commodities any airport should have. Good food, well good food as airline food goes. It had Wifi, and it had a large quarantine zone. The New Plague was sweeping through Colorado like a storm and the airport was one of the major ways the disease was transported to other states. Cincinnati, fortunately, was not one of those heavily afflicted areas. Several hours later, Johnson was in LAX Airport in Los Angeles, then Pearl Harbor, Hawaii where he waited his next instructions...

**I would again like to thank any of you beautiful people who read all of this. I know you were hoping for combat as would be suggested by, I dunno, the game itself? Do not worry, there is a rollercoaster of fun and adventure lying in wait on the road ahead. If you bear with me for the rest of the story, you too will enjoy it. If you find me to be worthy, following my story or leaving a favorable review is well appreciated and it is a welcome sight to see, even if it is a negative review.**

**Stay classy fanfiction.**


	3. Chapter 3: Terra Nova

Chapter 3

Terra Nova

Gone... They're all gone... Radio chatter from the various military installations back home was being broadcasted on all channels. This was finally happening, the end of days. Johnson looked to the smoking remains of the silo. He saw his failure, his failure alone had resulted in the entire destruction of civilization on Earth. Johnson sat against a piece of concrete that had been blown apart by a Gauss Rifle round against the bunker. As he looked to his right, and to his left, he saw nothing but blood and broken armor. His squad was completely destroyed. Simply overrun by the sheer volume of fire that had engulfed them. Even with all the strength power armor provided, it only takes one bullet to break the seal on it, and once you lose the seal, the armor can fall apart. Johnson was bleeding badly from multiple rounds to his legs, his armor gave him a shot of Med-X to keep the pain at bay, and a stimpack to try and provide some form of quick healing, but they were grave wounds. He simply slumped against the concrete bunker, this place would become his tomb, as the rest of America suffered for his own inadequacy.

"This is Zulu Actual, is anyone still out there?" the radio buzzed to life. Johnson jarred himself awake and smacked the transceiver on his suits communications array.

"This is Bear 1-4, where the hell is every one?" Johnson asked.

"I say again, this is Zulu Actual, all callsigns, report!" the radio once again replied.

"THIS IS BEAR 1-4! I've lost my squad, I need help! I'm bleeding out he-"

"My God, they're all gone." Johnson was frustrated now. His only lifeline, ruined again. God was keeping Johnson around to remind him of his failure.

Johnson reached for his weapon, a Laser Rifle on the ground. As he grabbed it, it split in half. The AER-9 was not designed for this type of physical trama. Damn, another curveball. Johnson stood. He looked around to see his Pip-Boy flashing red. It was detecting large scale stress fractures over the majority of his bones. Despite this, he stood, back curled as his mind forced his body to move. With all his willpower, he told his right foot to move forward. It slowly lifted, then slid forward six inches and collapsed again. Progress. He forced his left foot to do the same. He lifted it again, but this time when it hit the ground, a column of pain shot up his leg and he seized over for a moment. Pain oozed out of his body, or was that blood? Johnson's head felt really light and he seemed to have little to no control over it. He shuffled forward, half a foot by half a foot. He found a 9mm Pistol on the ground. Although older than the normal side arms, it still could pack a punch. He took out the magazine and saw five rounds in it. He slammed the magazine back into the gun and put one shot into the chamber.

"Ho-ly shit, sir, I got something!" the radio buzzed in, "run a biometric scan!" There was a humming in Johnson's Power Armor.

"Bear 1-4, do you copy?" Johnson tried to reply, but his radio was still busted.

"Bear 1-4, respond if you are there!" Again, silence.

"Bear 1-4, if you can hear this, head three klicks east of your current position. The FOB there can give you shelter until we can get our shit together. Stay with me son! We'll get you out of this! Zulu Actual out." Johnson's Pip-Boy updated with a waypoint. It was a long walk, but it was Johnson's only option at this point. Would he rather die in the sand? That's hardly a fitting end for a warrior. Thoughts of his home and family entered his mind as he slowly trudged forward.

Johnson walked for several hours at an extremely slow pace. The Mongolian sun burned upon him, until suddenly, a large yellow cloud completely blocked out the sun, the Earth grew cold and dark. Tapping the side of his helmet, Johnson switched on his NVGs so he could amplify what little light got through. He did this just in time to see a Chinese soldier uncloak with his stealth suit and fired a round with his assault rifle into Johnson's shoulder. Johnson's body rocked with pain. Adrenaline and instinct took over as he shouldered his pistol and fired all five shots dead center mass into the enemy combatant. Well, they'd have been center mass in the best of situations. In Johnson's pain and drug-filled state, one hit the torso, the other the ankle, two flat out missed, and the final hit in the square of his forehead. The soldier fell down like a ragdoll. Then the Chinese man fell as well. Johnson's vision began fading and his blinking was getting heavy. All he could think of was home. The annoying flashing pip-boy would never cease. His Pip-Boy was solid red now, no message on it. The screen was cracked, and a knob was broken off. Johnson faded to darkness.

_It was almost a scene out of a movie. Johnson felt his body floating, almost as though he was a tube and the floating he was doing was along the lazy river, back when he would actually take his family on vacation. He thought of his family, he saw Kristen, his wife of eleven years. They had met in high-school during Math of all things. Calculus...he fucking hated Calculus. Why the hell did he care what a circle could do for humanity? The number of radians in a circle was two damn pi after all. He then saw his children. His oldest was his son, Michael. Michael was ten and played soldier in the backyard all the time. He admired his dad, and wanted to be just like him when he got older. But...Johnson felt a great sadness. His son's image turned to ash and scattered amongst the wind. Johnson had failed his family here. His family was now radioactive dust in a crater somewhere. Such loving and amazing people, extinguished, like a candle never granted a long wick. Self hate built in him. Why? Why couldn't he have moved faster? For almighty Christ, why did he not suspect that the Chinese would have a firewall in place? Why did he allow himself to take his sweet time in breaking this firewall? His children died for the sins of a father. But...wait. There was, hope. He signed the deal for the "Enclave". His family COULD have made it to Raven Rock! That Colonel better have come through on his end of the bargain! A renewed sense of relief flooded into Johnson's mind. It was like water, washing over a dry flood plain as the ground just absorbed and cherished it. Yet, at the same time, it was bittersweet. He was one of the few people who had the benefit of having his children spared. How many honest, hardworking Americans died today? __But, at least he has a single silver lining on the cloud, he was not one of them, nor was his family. This feeling was exhilarating, his spirits felt absolutely lifted._

"UNIT 37604-B HAS A CONFIRMATION ON THE PACKAGE. COMBATANTS DETECTED, EXTERMINATE." _A voice? This one was odd, it was not fragmented, but whole and loud and authoritive. He heard a spinning sound. A loud constant buzzing then, what an odd dream! There were bees, yet no sight of them? Such bees would have driven Nicolas Cage mad! _Suddenly, he woke up.

"CESSATION OF HOSTILITIES COMPLETE. STAFF SERGEANT JOHNSON, ACKNOWLEDGE."

Johnson groaned and he moaned, "Argh, yeah, for what it's worth."

"THIS UNIT HAS BEEN TASKED WITH YOUR SAFE KEEPING, ACCOMPANY THIS UNIT TO THE DESIGNATED ZONE." Johnson's eyes slowly peaked open. There was heavy blinking, but then they then remained open, and Johnson's vision, although blurry, returned. He saw a large dark figure, standing upon a tripod. A seat on its back was the only think he could make out on the strange contraption, however, there were two bright red eyes within what appeared to be a cage. John said to hell with it and sat on the chair, as he fell asleep, he felt himself moving again.

He awoke several hours later in a daze. There was a bright light shining on him. He squinted extremely hard as the intense light bore into his eyes, frying his retinas.

"Well, if it isn't John Wayne?" a muffled voice chuckled., "you my friend have the stamina of a horse, I say." John's eyes began focusing, pupils shrinking to filter the excess light. Suddenly, a masked man's face appeared directly over him. Johnson instinctively jumped and tried to move his arm to throw out a punch. "Woah woah now, hey Tex, it's alright, you're with the good guys now, how do you feel?" Johnson's mouth made a bunch of strange movements and his throat gurgled out a response.

"Like the morning after shore leave."

"Ha ha ha, well now, I believe you should know, you're at Camp Navarro now buddy! Looks like you took some serious damage in transit though,"

"Nav...the hell?"

"Nav-a-rro. Mainly, the underground facilities you see. You were a part of Task Force Trident, yes?" Task Force Trident...Davidson...Bradley...Rodriguez...Johnson ...a mission gone wrong. Johnson's face displayed heavy pain. He nodded, and his brow furrowed with pain.

"Ack, how long was I out?" Johnson asked, hesitant for an answer.

"Including today," the man asked. Johnson nodded. "Approximately 53 years, and seven months."

"Fifty three years and...sweet christ..." Johnson stated.

"It's not so bad, really, I mean, you were treated initially to make sure your life support was stable, then you were placed in cryostasis like the rest of the vaults and facilities. That way, the radiation would have dispersed enough to allow the outdoors to be habitable...sort of."

"Habitable, what do you mean?" Johnson puzzled. The man who Johnson now assumed to be a doctor turned his smile into a grimace.

"The...American way of life, as you knew it, is over. There was, well, an exchange of weaponry. China and the US finally snapped. We have no idea who fired first, but both sides absolutely unloaded on each other. Missiles, bombers, everything that could have a mass destructive quality to it was thrown at one another. As a result, all the other countries of the world did their own nuclear exchanges."

"Have you heard," Johnson grunted from the pain, "anything from Raven Rock?"

"No, all communication has gone dark since the exchange. The EMP from the weapons fried our communications equipment, while we are close to getting a restoration, we have no idea about the other bases.

"Got...to...get to Raven Rock..." Johnson grunted, he quickly shuffled to a seated up position.

"Woah woah woah John Wayne. You're in no condition to go anywhere, even IF we had transportation.

"I'm agh, ready!" Johnson barked.

"No, you're not. Now, I may not be the Almighty, but your muscles are stiff as a brick from all the time frozen, in addition to any time prior where you weren't moving. Your bones are weak, but they require a little bit more time to reinforce and augment. Your mind is sharp, but we need to run some more tests before we give you a psychological A-OK."

"Do whatever it takes, I need to get out of here," Johnson commanded, he just realized that his arms weren't actually bound, they were just stiff and unresponsive.

"Alright now, we're going to sedate you and finish treatment, it will take about two days for you to be able to respond to basic stimuli both mentally and physically." With that statement, Johnson once again returned to sleep.

"Doctor Henry here, all our tests are complete, our friend is showing green scores across the board. Johnson was injected with a stimulant which accelerated his heart rate to the point where his mind thought for sure he was about to die. He jarred awake and felt...Refreshed.

"Alright now buddy, I am going to give you a few minor commands and we're going to see if all horses are accounted for. I want you to life your right arm. Johnson obeyed, but noticed that his arm moved more fast than he was used to, he had to catch it with his other arm, which also moved with lightning speed. The doctor laughed and told him to take it easy. He then told him to raise his left arm, and Johnson obeyed. They repeated these two tests about eleven times until Johnson had it down pat. They then did this with his feet. Finally, the doctor had him walk around. Johnson stood up, and his body felt like a hulk. He stood, and his legs gave him power. Each step felt like he was going to rocket forward. Once again, the doctor did his kind-hearted laugh.

"Alright, pal, why don't you go check in with the base commander to make sure you've got your clearance to leave while I fill out your paperwork. Your vitals are strong, and you are as healthy as a mule, for now. Good luck!" Johnson nodded, and walked upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a heavy steel door lie in wait. Johnson used his new found strength and heaved open the door with ease. Upon exitting the building, he was blinded momentarily. The sun's gaze was intense, brilliant, and strong. He shielded his eyes for a moment as all he could see was nothing more than abstract white light, and a small amount of yellow dust. As his pupils contracted, he blinked heavily and saw the desolate wasteland that was America for the first time. The ground was crumbly, and a rusted yellow. In the distance, Johnson saw what was once a large city, but now was nothing more than a few shells of buildings, and some crumbled ruins. Johnson had never heard of Navarro before, so he had no idea where in the United States he could be. The base's layout was relatively small. There was a small hanger, but oddly, no runway. It must have been for some form of VTOL, if it were a plane, it would need some form of runway. There were a few small buildings. A barracks, a small field hospital, an armory, and what appeared to be the Commander's Quarters. This was the large building in the middle of the Camp. In front of this building, there was a parade field likely for assembly, in this field, a few men in some strange form of power armor were doing various PT exercises. The drill sergeant was looming over them, yelling.

"Oh, so you're the replacement, what is your name Private?"

"Private Pile."

"You are FORGETTING something maggot!"

"Private Pile, sir!"

"DO I LOOK LIKE A SIR? I WORK FOR A LIVING YOU MOR-ON! YOU WILL CALL ME SERGEANT, OR SERGEANT DORNAN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"

"Sure, Sarge whatever."

"If I like you, you can call me Sarge. But guess what? I DON'T LIKE YOU! Do you understand?!"

Johnson chuckled to himself and kept walking, he kept thinking to himself that he always loved military humor. Johnson entered the building known as Major Forge's quarters. The room of the lobby was quaint, similar to that of a Pre-war hospital's waiting area. There was a slight breeze which made the facility slightly more cold than the outside air, for which, Johnson was thankful. He walked up to the secretary at her desk. She was writing something down on a large book

"Name?" she asked.

"Staff Sergeant Johnson, Eric J. I was told to speak with the base commander from Doctor Henry."

"Ah, so you're _that _guy. Go ahead and see him, first door on your right," she replied without looking up. She dropped her pen to point, then resumed writing. Johnson walked down the hall and into the office of Major Forge. He stood at attention and saluted until the Major gave him the command at ease and told him to have a seat.

"So, what do you need?" The Major asked, uninterested.

"I need to get to Raven Rock, my orders are to link up with the Enclave forces there." Johnson replied.

"Raven Rock...Boy, you're on the wrong end of the country. Raven Rock is in D.C, you're in our little chunk of paradise known as former San Francisco. I know, I know, she's not easy on the eyes, but she's still got life in her if you know where to look for it," the Major stated with a smirk. He sat upright in his chair.

"Well sir, do we have any form of transportation for me to get there?" Johnson asked.

"Negative, at the moment, we're still fixing the electronics on the Vertibirds outside. The EMP was nasty to the poor girls,"

"Well sir, looks like I've got to hoof it then, can you help out at all?"

"Hey now, slow down. You're talking about a really long expedition here. The pioneers did such a trip in a year, and that was before all the abominations were out there. There is some seriously fucked up shit out there, you do not want to go alone."

"I have to, I'd be in violation of orders otherwise. Besides, I can handle myself."

"I insist you remain here."

"With all due respect sir, I'll be on my way." The Major let out a long sigh.

"Well if you're going to be that stubborn about it, head down to the armory first, I'll authorize you an expeditionary class outfit, that way the wasteland doesn't eat you up and spit you out." Forge sighed again and began scribbling on a piece of paper. He then tore it and handed it to Johnson. "Show this to the quartermaster and he'll get you all set up. Go on now, shoo." Major Forge waved him off, and began staring at his desk and writing on a different sheet of paper again. Johnson exited the building and entered the armory next door. He showed the piece of paper to the Quartermaster, and the quartermaster showed him to the armor on the wall, he grabbed a strange chestplate. The armor had lightbulbs on it which were linked by a visible electrical current when the armor was activated.

"What type of wizardry is this shit?"

"It's an experimental Tesla armor. The Major authorized you to use it. It offers greater protection than standard armor, and the charge within the tesla coils on it can serve to boost the strength of any energy weapons you might come into contact with." The Quartermaster mentally read off. "For your primary weapon, we'll be giving you a standard .32 hunting rifle, bolt action."

"Bolt action, what is this, the first World War? Where the hell are the automatics and lasers? We got enough firepower to make the Empire cringe!"

"Sorry, but following the war, we lost a large stockpile of weaponry like that. Plus, out in the wastes, you'll be much more likely to find .32 caliber rounds than you will microfusion cells. As a side arm, you're being given a standard issue 10mm Pistol. Again, this weapon has heavy stopping power and relatively common ammunition. Good luck out there." With his grumbling in place, Johnson put on the alien-looking armor. He stared at the bug eyes of the helmet, then turned it around and put it on. As it slid on, the magnetic seals clicked into place, and it was now firmly attached to the rest of him. Johnson rolled his head around for a second to make sure all was good, and it was. Johnson held out his arm to check his pip-boy to make sure all scans were golden. To his surprise, it was not there. Johnson then remembered that since this was much later than when he went out, it was likely that they had taken it off for surgery. It didn't make a difference however, as the suit's Heads Up Display kicked on and displayed the amount of ammo he had left, and did a scan on his rifle to reveal that it had perfect condition. The digital compass kicked on too, and began spinning. It slowly stopped and aligned with what Johnson assumed was North. It then adjusted to compensate for what direction the helmet was facing, and was good to go.

"Hey, good luck out there. It is hell on Earth,"

"I don't think you've encountered quite the same hell I have," Johnson replied. He then stepped outside of the Armory, and into the formerly hot air of the desert sky.

**What is up beauties? This chapter was lengthy, but I didn't feel as though it could end until I had reached a good stopping point. I want to keep this chapters nice and long for ya so you have something to entertain yourselves with. For the two of ya'll who are now following, I appreciate the support and for those of you who read the last chapter, I love all of you. Please leave a review so I can be given constructive criticism on how well my story telling ability is. I would gladly hear all feedback, positive and negative. Have a wonderful day/evening. Toodles.**


	4. Chapter 4: Bianca

Chapter 4: Bianca

**What is up beauties? Just a good old fashioned adventure here, stay tuned and make sure to slap the favorite button in the face if you liked what you read. For all the new readers, welcome, for all you who joined up a while ago, thanks for sticking with it! Enjoy.**

"Hey lookey here guys! Buzz Lightyear has come to the rescue!" A Latino voice mocked from some hollowed buildings.

"Fuck off!" Johnson shouted into the shadows. Some laughing followed this. Johnson counted four, no, five distinct laughs. Likely though, there was a sixth person, it is never exactly the number anticipated.

"Careful guys! He might call fucking star command on us!" This was followed by more laughing. _Three...Four...Five..._

"I will shove my foot so far up your ass, that the sweat from my knee will quench your thirst if you don't shut the hell up!" Johnson retorted. The voice was followed by the silhouette of a figure. This silhouette, then followed by a person. The man who jumped down wore what appeared to be a black tactical vest with a red shirt which had the sleeves rolled up to about elbow length. The black pair of trousers he had on had kneecaps on which was odd since Johnson doubted that the man did any bicycling.

"Hey vato, you better watch your damn tongue, or I'll rip it out and feed it to you," the man spoke. Johnson began weighing in his options. He could easily dispatch this man, but there were at least four others nearby, likely more. This would be the first time Johnson ever killed an American. That was not a thought he liked to think of, he was a soldier, he killed people _for _the Americans, not _against _the Americans.

"Ojala, if you're gonna be an asshole, then you better grow a god damn dick and do something about it."

He could also just walk away like those filthy hippies would suggest. Even though it may be the "ethically wrong" decision, their would be no way in hell he would select that. I mean, come on, like the dumbass said, did he have a pair of balls? _I suppose there IS a third option..._

"Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you! You are my -" the man's sentence was cut off by a punch to the face. Due to the mass behind power armor whenever it strikes, not to mention it already supplements whatever strength the user might have, the man went sailing into the air, before landing with a nice loud thump about two meters away.

"Acta non Verba, mother fucker." Johnson walked away. He began to draw his side arm since he knew that the man's "little buddies" would likely emerge from their lairs to see what just happened. As he was walking, he began to think of.. _Plink! Plink! Plink! _Johnson said, "For Christ's sake, what the hell is it now?" He turned around, and the man was now standing up, nose crooked and bleeding heavily, and he had out a small .22 pistol. Johnson began to laugh as the plinking from the pistol occurred. "Seriously, what the hell are you doing?" The man kept firing.

"I'm killing you, you... you no-good mother fucker!" The man stammered out as he began to realize what little good his bullets were doing. Johnson leaned forward and laughed in his face.

"With that pea shooter? PLEASE! That thing is more better equipped to spread butter than it is to kill a Mark I Prototype Tesla Armor wearing combatant, allow me to demonstrate..." Johnson stated as he lunged for the gun. The man struggled to hold onto it, but Johnson's implants and his power armor supplements managed to easily overpower him and Johnson was now the one with the gun. With one arm, he held the man in place with a headlock, with the other, he put the barrel of the small pistol against the side of the man's head. The man began to shake, but Johnson held him fast. "Now now, don't be a bad sport! It was all fun and games when you got to shoot at me, now it's my turn, right? I mean, it's only fair.." Johnson spoke in a sarcastically smooth voice.

"P..Please Mister! I ain't done no wrong! Don't do this, come on now!" the man pleaded for his life. Once again, Johnson let off a condescending laugh.

"Come on, it's like a good old pin the tail on the donkey game, only instead of a donkey, with have you, the excrement of humanity. My good friend the American Firearm would love to get to know you...Let me just play it like a drunk guy might at a party, by pinning it right on your head, right between those beautiful baby blues."

"N..No! Don't do this! Please! I'll pay you! I'll do anything, come on, don't kill me!" The man began to sob amidst his pleading.

"Oh yeah, I forgot something. When you play this game, first you gotta spin around to make sure I don't cheat! Johnson covered his eyes with the hand with the pistol in it, the entire time, keeping the gun pointed at the poor sod. Johnson began to count as he lifted the man into the air by his neck, keeping him in a headlock the entire time. The man began to gasp for air. "One..." Johnson started spinning faster, "Two..." faster still, "Three..." He lowered the man, and put the gun to his head. The man was now breathing extremely deeply after nearly having his trachea broken, and now couldn't even stammer out a beg to spare his life. "You were a better donkey in this life than you ever were a man," Johnson put the gun to the man's head with more force. Without mercy, nor a consciencous, Johnson pulled the trigger as the man's brief scream was silenced by gunshot.

The bullet buried itself in the near by sand where the man had collapsed to the ground. Within a second, the man began panting and sweating. He looked at his hands as if in disbelief. He then looked at Johnson with a puzzled expression. "Let me be perfectly blunt, you are not going to come after me with anything short of a missile launcher again, you hear me you piece of shit? Next time, I'm not going to miss and it won't be with a god damned spit-ball launcher." Johnson took the magazine out, removed the round from the chamber, then threw the empty gun to the man on the ground. "Well come on, get outta here!" Johnson ordered. He walked away uncertain of what the future would hold as the guy grabbed his gun and ran back into the buildings and began speaking to his stunned comrades.

Darkness was fast approaching. Soon, his first night in post-apocalyptia would be happening. There is no way in hell he wanted to be outside when that sun went down. It would likely start to get VERY cold, and, well, the freaks come out at night as they say. There! There was a small hut in the distance. Johnson walked for it, and as he got closer, he realized that it wasn't one of the older buildings. Instead, it was a small hut made from what appeared to be various pieces of sheet and scrap metal. He unholstered his 10mm pistol as he drew near the building. The building was small, but it still had a door to it, this door also appeared to be made from jury-rigged metal. He carefully opened the door while keeping his weapon trained on the door way at all times. As he opened it, he heard a cocking sound.

"ASSHOLE! ONE MORE STEP AND IT WILL BE YOUR LAST!" an older man said. He pointed a double-barrel shotgun at Johnson, the looks appeared to be twelve-gauge. Instinct took over, and without thinking nor remorse, Johnson fired two shots into the man's chest, a double-tap. Each bullet impacting softly, but with clear ripples across the flesh as the hollow point rounds disintegrated within him. The man fell over, and Johnson walked up. He walked up to the gentlemen lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and put another round into the mans head. Bits of gray matter briefly suspended in the air, as was indicated to happen by Newton's Third Law of Motion. Johnson felt...nothing.

As he raided the man's pantry, and pre-war fridge to see what he could eat, obviously he would need all the calories possible for such a journey, he felt nothing for the action he just did. As he sat eating a 60 year old can of Pork and Beans, he only wondered where he would be going next. There has to be civilization out there...somewhere...He looked at the bare surroundings of the room. There was a large backpack on the floor, looked to be of military standards. One of those older ALICE models though. Never the less, it will help. He emptied all the pantries and cabinets of food and put them into the bag. He took inventory as he put them in. He had four cans of Cram, another can of Pork and Beans, five Salisbury steaks, all uncooked of course, and eleven bags of potato chips. In addition, he put a couple bottles of Nuka-Cola in the bag. Of course, he had been a caffeine addict prior to the war, normal Americans are. The flavoring and sugar within the bottle would provide a slight energy boost and would raise his morale if he ever got down. Not to mention, it would make a worst-case scenario drink. Soda will NOT sustain him from dehydration, but it will provide enough fluid to make it over one more hill if need be. Fortunately, this man also had plenty of bottled water. He had approximately thirteen bottles of water which his armor's geiger counter indicated was in fact irradiated, and three bottles of pure water. The dirty water would come in handy if he ever needed it, it would function as a "middle-man" between the serene purified water, and the syrupy nuka-cola. He put all the bottles except for one bottle of pure water in his bag in a different compartment. The Army teaches you to be organized, and the last thing he would want is for one bottle to leak and destroy all the food in the process. The room had a single bed, if you could call it a bed. It was nothing more than a mattress on a metal spring board, but it would have to do. He was going to keep pistol in its holster, but flicked the safety on. He took the magazine out and ejected the bullet still inside the chamber, snatching it in mid air and putting it back in the magazine. He took three more rounds which he had loose in his bag and put them in the magazine also. He then took the pistol off of safety, and back into his holster. He then put the magazine next to him. If anyone, or anything came to give him trouble in the middle of the night, he'd be ready. As an extra layer of defense, he switched on his armor's motion detector. Any time anything over the size of a foot happened to come within a 10 meter radius, his armor would emit a loud ping.

This ping was the bane of sleep. Multiple times throughout the night, the armor would ping, but nothing would be near the house except tumbleweeds. God damned design oversights. As a Ranger, he was trained to act under sleep deprived conditions, so he would be able to function the next day, but that still doesn't mean it would be enjoyable. Johnson finally drifted off to sleep for the last time, he figured dawn would be approaching soon, so he wanted to get some final hours in.

Dawn hit like a ton of bricks, the light beamed onto the mattress as a form of nature's alarm. Johnson knew it would be time to bug out, he grabbed his back pack, grabbed a can of Cram and drank the other half of his water bottle, throwing it to the side when he finished. It hit the old fellow in the head. It was then, and only then that Johnson noticed the man. Yes, Johnson had seen the man when he had shot him, and yes he had heard the man issuing the warnings. But for the first time, Johnson actually noticed the man. His shotgun still clutched in his hands, Johnson went to retrieve it. Ammunition and weapons would be vital in this new world. The shotgun was made of supple maple wood, and beautiful crafted and well kept, despite all the harsh years it had seen. Johnson was then finally hit with reality.

The shotgun had not been loaded. The weapon was nothing more than a dead old man's only form of defense, likely from those punks nearby. The old man could have done nothing more than glare and think angry thoughts with this weapon. On the side, the name _Bianca _was carved into it with a professional carving tool. Had the man named his weapon, as many had before him? Was the weapon symbolic of an also now dead Mrs. Old Man? He seemed to be in his sixtys or seventies. Was he alive before the bombs hit? How did he stay alive for so long?

_Damn it. This is a bad case of blue on blue. Come on Eric, get a grip, he had a gun, he could have blown a hole in you had he have a single shell! It was only a natural reaction! Yeah...IF he had a shell, and IF I hadn't just barged into his house. Fucking A. For all I know, he could be MY age, __well, my biological age. Alright...Well, once you finally get to Raven Rock, you can remorse there. Now Eric, you need to go. Now._

Johnson inexplicably reached into the man's pocket. He pulled out his wallet. It had a California Driver's License. Andrew Taylor Eddy listed on it. He took the license, and put it into a third compartment in his backpack. He then retrieved the shotgun the man had. It was suited for twelve gauge rounds, something that could definitely come in handy. He found some rope in the hut and made a sling for it, then wrapped it onto his back, it made an X where it intersected the hunting rifle which was already there. As he shouldered his bag, he then left the hut and set his right foot forward for the horizon. His HUD guiding him East.

The desert of California was a lonely land. The sands of dunes and the crests of hills being the only distinguishing mark across the barren landscape. He continued walking as the weight of the world fell upon him. This entire situation, was caused by an inability to just press some god damned buttons on a now destroyed piece of equipment. The burden of this thought made him completely oblivious to the abomination walking towards him.

A loud _HISS! _Penetrated the lonely wasteland. Johnson returned to reality to see a grey tail being whipped at him, a barb at the end. The tail struck him, the force knocking him on his rear. The point penetrating his back. The pain was that of a thousand paper cuts, all within the same area. Johnson's adrenaline kicked him into high gear. As the armor injected him with a dose of med-x to combat the pain, and an injection of Psycho to fuel adrenaline, Johnson felt invincible. He tackled what now appeared to be an exceptionally large scorpion. The creature, stunned by such a reaction, was taken back when Johnson began to stab the barb in its tail with a knife. Green venom splattering everywhere. The scorpion reeled around and threw Johnson off of its tail. It tried to swipe at him with its claws, before this, Johnson was already back. He shouldered his pistol and fired four times in rapid succession. _Pop pop pop pop! _The rounds impacted the creature's shells, but the hollow points fell apart doing no damage. The beast charged for him, but Johnson wasn't there any more. He slid to his left, and dropped his pistol in a single move. Unsheathing his rifle, he brought it to bear on the scorpion as it began to charge. As it began to reach him, Johnson fired one round of the .308 bolt action rifle. _BANG_! He rolled to the right as the creature slowly halted it raised a pincer one more time, then died. The beast slumped over, defeated. Johnson gasped for breath.

_ What...In...The...Hell? _Even Johnson's thoughts were heavy. _Bastard...knicked...me...good..._ Johnson's vision began to get blurry. He rose to his feet, the world was spinning. He shuffled around as the wasteland turned to jungle. A flock of birds lifted off to his presence. Something was familiar, yet, out of place. The trees of the jungle were vast and overpowering. The calls of the various animals easily heard. He approached a sign slowly, the vast rivers of water around him. "BIENVENIDO A KRAUTARA!" printed on the sign. Something was familiar... Suddenly, the trees collapsed, fell into a thousand pieces and died. The grass yellowed and shriveled. The water replaced with nothing more than a dried creek bed. He heard a whisper.

"Eric, come to me."

**Thank you all you beautiful people. I am honestly pleasantly surprised by the turn around yield this story is producing. I never expected more than like five people to take an actual interest in this story. Thank you so much for your support! Who was the whisper? How bad was the Radscorpion sting? Is Johnson tripping out on LSD? All of these answers and more in the next chapter. Ta-ta!**


	5. Chapter 5: Little Ol' Ashling

Chapter: 5

Little Old Ashling

_ Okay, I am seriously tripping balls here. What in the hell knows my name in this place? _Johnson thought as he looked around. That strange and ominous voice still addressing him by name. He listened for the sound of the voice, and saw nothing but desert. Like an actual desert, not the new radioactive wasteland which still had a homey feeling to it. There was nothing but flat terrain and sand. A god awful amount of sand at that. The only noticeable landmark in the distance was a single glowing pillar of light. He shambled towards it. The voice grew louder, but then right as he reached the pillar it dissipated again. It was then replaced by another voice, this one instead having a deeper, more masculine tone to it.

"_Diego is down, I repeat, Diego is down..." _the voice was nothing more than a whisper. A whisper that was now to his _right_. He turned to face it, nothing again but sand and silence.

"_The principal is away..." _This time it was to the left. Johnson grew angry. "WHERE ARE YOU? COME OUT!" Johnson reached for his pistol which was no longer in his holster.

"_This is Zulu Actual, all callsigns report!" _The sands began to whip up and fly around Johnson in every direction. He looked first to his left, then to his right trying to home in on what was happening. Again, he saw a pillar of light, this one was slightly closer though. He began to limp toward it. His vision was becoming distorted and it quickly was seeming to be...in the wrong. His eyes yielded primrose where the sky had once yielded yellow. He shook his head, citing the injections that his armor gave him during his plight. _Psycho, a hell of a drug. _He saw a shack in the distance, this one was lonely and sat upon the only hill anywhere. He walked up to it, and opened the door. Inside, a man lie with three bullets in him. All three within a tight grid in the chest. A man slept on the bed with enough bottles of booze to assume that this was in fact a "forced" sleeping. A helmet sat on the desk next to the bed with its black eyes staring at Johnson the whole time. He turned around and nearly ran into an elderly woman. He naturally flinched, but the woman seemed uncaring and kept walking.

"Michael..." she stammered out, "come on, let us go home. This place is so very brutish."

"There is no home any more! There never has been since Dad left! I just wish that you remembered Jennifer enough to realize this!" Johnson was now confused, and he left the shack as more arguing occurred. He walked for a little bit, no more whispers or lights or landmarks, and after awhile, he plopped down in the sand and just sat there. He looked at his hands which had now turned a dark crimson. He took off the helmet of his armor and sat there. As he took of the helmet, a nice cool breeze washed over him from head to toe, it was relaxing and all encompassing. Suddenly, a young woman's face was right in front of him. Startled, Johnson jumped back and landed on his back. Unfortunately since he was sitting down in volatile sand, it got his back lodged and the sand caused the joints in the legs to lock up. Johnson looked like a turtle on its back, all he could do was rock back and forth and try to gain some leverage, as he did, the woman walked up to him again and again put her face right in front of his.

"Err, uh, howdy?" Eric asked as he rocked back and forth violently.

"Eric, I can help you, but you have to wake up..." Johnson shot her a confused look.

"Uhh, was that my million dollar question because I am clearly awake?"

"Eric, we need you to get up. Get home to us."

"Us? All I see is you and sand, and EVERYBODY loves sand!" She shook her head, then vanished. As she vanished, the sand began to collapse around him like an Indiana Jones movie on a low budget. He yelled as he began to plummet into a black void.

He then hit a hard springboard and sat up suddenly, his head breaking into a cold sweat.

"Take it easy hon, you've been out cold a couple of days," an elderly woman sat next to him smiling at him, the wrinkles on her forehead extending as she smiled. Johnson looked to his left and to his right, he was in some sort of tent with the sun beating down outside. He noticed a scalpel next to him.

"M'name's Mary, what might your name be?" She asked. Johnson gave no reply, but resumed looking. He extended his arm and yawned while faking a stretch, in the process he knocked a bin of pre-packaged band-aids over. "Oh my deary, let me get that for you." She began to pick up the band-aids as Johnson shot his hand out and grabbed the scalpel and placed it behind him, hidden from sight but in reach. "Not one for words are we? He he he, neither was Johnny, oh Johnny, I still remember your face..."

Johnson finally broke the silence, "Staff Sergeant Eric Johnson, now if you'll excuse me, I need to continue." As he began to stand, a man who Johnson hadn't even noticed then pushed Johnson back down.

"Listen here buddy-" he was cut off as Johnson grabbed his arm and tossed him onto the spring board as well. He then grabbed the scalpel and placed it against the man's neck.

"I...Have...A...Bad...Problem...with touchy people." Johnson said slowly and angrily. The man looked up apathetic.

"Can I go now?" the man asked with no trace of emotion. Johnson pressed him more, then released him. As he did, he looked down and realized that there was a pistol in his gut. Johnson laughed, then patted the man on the back.

"Offer one hand and arm the other, I could get used to you." Johnson stated. The man again kept no emotion. "Now that that ordeal is over, where on Earth am I?"

"You're in the small town of Ashling, California my friend. May it live and prosper."

"Ashling, what the hell is an Ashling?" Johnson asked. The elderly woman walked up to him and smacked him in the face. Johnson was caught off guard and left puzzled.

"Now listen here sonny! Don't talk such rot! Your brain will turn green and grow fungus! Now then. Our little community is nothing more than a peaceful farming village who on occasion trades with passing caravans."

"Farming? What can you farm in this muck?"

"We grow a little corn and a little xander root, but our big thing is the Brahmin," she smiled. "Our Brahmin are some of the strongest North of the Hub!"

"Brahmin? What is that? Some sort of ox or something?"

"Our Brahmin are our way of life, they are the vital blood within our community. We grow them to produce food and milk for us, and we mature them to carry goods for the caravans who in turn give us the tools needed to cultivate this land." Johnson shook his head. As he did, he realized there was no mechanical delay between when his visor would appear and when it would fall out of sight with the sliding motion of his head. He touched his face and realized that there was no protective helmet to cover it.

"My armor! What did you savages do with it?" Johnson asked accusingly.

"My dear, you weren't wearing armor. You were lying in the sand about fifteen feet from a giant radscorpion with nothing on besides a simple black suit. Johnson looked down and realized that the only thing left was his black Enclave PT clothing, the cloth of which held tightly to his skin as a protective layer. The uniform itself was nothing more than a simple shirt and shorts and existed to keep the skin from painfully sticking to the armor during extended periods of activity.

"Well thanks, I guess." Johnson stated. He sulked about the loss of his tank like armor and his weapons as well. Suddenly, he heard screaming from outside. Several shots rang out and the sound of running was heard. Glass shattered, metal clanged, and fire arms cracked as the screaming began to die down. A man with dreadlocks and a red bandana burst into the tent and yelled a war cry really loud, a revolver in his hand. Johnson's instincts took over and Johnson surged out of his bed as the man tried to pistol whip him. Krav Maga took over from here on out and Johnson blocked the blow by parrying the man's arm at the radius, he then grabbed the arm and twisted it until it broke. The man screamed and began to try to attack. Johnson tackled him to the ground and did the other half of Krav Maga, ending the encounter as quickly as possible, to encourage total defeat, he inserted his thumbs into the man's eyes, gouging them. The pain the raider was feeling at this point was immense, and his hands began to grab for the bloody sockets where his eyes once were. At this time, Johnson used the moment to grab the man's revolver and put a round into the dying man's head as a form of mercy killing. The now eyeless and brainless man twitched as the round entered him then stopped moving. Johnson used this opportunity to check for ammunition. The raider only had about thirteen more shots, that plus the five still inside the six shooter rounded to a nice 18 rounds.

"STAY HERE!" Johnson yelled to the elderly woman and the other man who were stunned and sitting in the corner of the tent. Johnson ran outside and as he did, he collided with another one of the raiders. The raider, unsuspecting of it was knocked to his feet and his weapon went flying. Johnson put a round into his head as he hit the ground. Johnson turned around to see a third one with a knife. As the man swung it, Johnson once again had blocked it, this time with his left arm using the same technique as he had against the one in the tent. This time, a fist landed firm in the man's gut. He recoiled from the hit and was not prepared for the three other hits which quickly followed. He fell to the ground, and Johnson stomped the man in the nose, the act of which knocked the man out, and severely damaged his nose. Johnson hunched over the man to see a bullet graze the dirt next to him. He rolled and fired his revolver twice, one shot missing completely, the other grazing the woman's arm, she flinched and her rifle flew away. Johnson smirked, and the woman ran off into the distance. Johnson considered giving chase, but realized that his objective was to clear the area first. He looked from side to side as a way to remove the tunnel vision that an adrenaline rush creates. He saw nothing, all was quiet except for some minor crying. He looked back to the corpse that was unconscious and realized that the _only _weapon the raider had was a knife. Seriously? What the hell? Johnson took the knife, a solid old Ka-bar knife. He took the leather sheathe that was on the man's chest as well, and put the knife within it to protect it. He then looked for the source of the crying. A young girl was on the ground near one of the homes. She was bleeding from a bullet wound to her leg. _What type of sick fuck attacks a village to shoot at children? There are perfectly good adults around here to shoot instead, not children. Come on. _The young girl stared at Johnson, until she noticed the revolver in his hand. Her eyes ran wide with fear and she began to scoot back as fast as she could to avoid what she assumed was approaching danger. At this moment, Johnson dropped his revolver to the ground and began to prepare treating the young girl using the battlefield first-aid techniques he had memorized to a fine detail.

"Shh, look at me. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to patch up your leg right there okay? I need you to stay calm, or I might mess this up. I promise I will help you, but it is going to hurt a lot. Here, I want you to bite down on this as hard as you can, and do not stop biting until I am finished." Johnson handed her one of the revolver rounds he had. She looked at him cautiously and uncertain. "Please miss, I want to help you, but I can't do that unless you help me." She then nodded watched him as he unsheathed the knife. Whoever was using this knife before made sure that it stayed rust free, but it was likely to be poorly sanitized. Unfortunately, there was nothing to do for that now as the end of the world had effectively sapped all common sources of medical supplies. He then tore off the sleeves of one of the raiders who's clothing hadn't been sullied by dirt or blood. He was going to need this. Jackpot! The raider also had a large bottle of Vodka on him! Ivan was really going to start the party again today! Finally, he reached into a backpack that the raider who had been shot was wearing and found four water bottles, all filled. Again, a godsend.

"Alright, I need you to bite down on this as hard as you can. I am going to save you as long as you don't fall asleep, and don't squirm." She nodded and clutched the bullet with a firm grasp in between her teeth. He took the cloth he had taken from the raider and fashioned a tourniquet around the leg to stop the bleeeding, as he did this, he unsheathed his knife and dug it into her wound. He began to dig around trying to get around the small hand gun round. The entire time, he could hear the girl's air accelerate out of her lungs in a scream. Many people came out of their hidey-holes to see what was happening, but did not intervene as they saw what they thought was a stranger in skimpy clothing gutting a defenseless child while drinking Vodka.

Finally! Johnson popped the bullet out with sudden relief. The girl yelled extremely loudly, then grew quiet. Johnson took the vodka and opened it for the first time. He poured three quarters of the bottle into her wound, then responded by flushing it with three of the water bottles. He then finished pouring the vodka into her leg and made her drink the last bottle of water. He cut off one of his sleeves and tied it around the wound, he also then took what used to be the tourniquet and used that to firmly hold the makeshift bandage in place. He carried the girl into the tent he arose from not moments ago and laid her on the cot. As she fell asleep, and he exited the tent, he was subject to the cheering of the various homesteaders who had never seen what he just did before.

"Are you some type of god?" one of the random people asked him.

"Uh, no I-"

"You killed three of Marley's crew! And you're not even dead!" another voice cried.

"Well I-"

"How did you do this?"

"Alright. So, I'm a United States Army Ranger from before the war, a bunch of freaky sci-fi fuckery happened and here I am now. I'm heading East to carry out my final mission." Johnson stated. He was being honored as a hero, something he was never used to. A middle-aged man came up to him.

"Boy, I don't know nor do I care where you came from, but it would be MIGHTY decent of you to help us with our raider problem here. These marauders have been ransacking our little town and stealing our crops and killing our Brahmin, we could use a guy lock you."

"I've got bigger problems, I really need to get going..."

"Please sah! We've been losing people all the time to these punks, help us!" a child asked him.

"Well when you put it like that, who am I to say no?"

**Welcome to Ashling beauties. Hope you enjoy your stay in this little utopia, OR IS IT? dramatic music* anyway, thank you for signing on. Johnson has a good side? Whoda thunk it? So we got a town full of ranchers and farmers being attacked by Joe Shit the Rag man's own brigade. Unfortunately for Joe, a new player has stepped on the field, and things are going to: as they say in Anchorman, escalate quickly. **

**Look out bad guys, there's a new angry guy on the scene who can kick your ass in more ways than you know of, and a few ways that the lord will have envy on. Stay tuned for the next episode of Woody's round-up! Err the Greater Good!**


	6. Chapter 6: Preamble

Chapter: 6

Preamble

"So, this has been going on for how long exactly?" Johnson asked. He was in a larger building that served as the town hall. It was not large, merely larger than the other buildings in this small town.

"Stop." The woman with him said, "We aren't going any farther until you put on a pair of pants."

"Uhh. These _are _pants," Johnson retorted indignantly.

"No, those will give you as much cover from the elements out here as a cape. Here, where these." she handed him a pair of jeans and a long sleeved white shirt. Finally, she handed him what appeared to be an old ball cap.

"Fine, I won't look while you change." As she turned around, Johnson decided that he'd rather just slip the clothes over top. After all, going commando didn't seem like the best of ideas with a desert full of hostile creatures with some of the most virulent toxins known to man. As he dawned the outfit, and he put on the cap, he was hit with a flashback of his time. He was behind the lines in Mexico, shortly before the US invasion of the country.

_Christ it is hot. "Hey Johnson!" a voice called behind him. Johnson turned around to see Davidson, grinning like an idiot. _

_ "The hell do you want knucklehead?" Johnson joked. Insults were never taken heart since the camaraderie between the members of the squad was solid as steel._

_ "Hey hey hey, just wanted to say that Uncle Vlad got brewski's for us." Davidson threw him a bottle. Johnson turned it around and it was clearly Vodka. "Tell Uncle Vlad that drinking on duty is STRICTLY forbidden," Johnson reminded. As Davidson took a swig, Johnson swatted it out of his hand, spilling alcohol all over the desert sand. "Oh I'm sorry Major Asswipe," Davidson retorted._

_ "Hey, children, focus, we got a job to do," Bradley reminded._

_ "_Hey buddy! Yoohoo! Heyo?" the woman shook him. Johnson shook his head and reality returned. "You alright mister? You were zoned out for like a minute."

"Yeah I'm fine it's...it's nothing. Say, I didn't catch your name."

"The name is Jesse Starr, most people just call me Jessie. What's your name?" Johnson took a long sigh. He didn't plan on staying in Anysmalltown, USA for much longer, so he decided to give only his last name. It would be easier to pack up that way.

"Just call me Johnson," he stated.

"Johnson? Ain'tcha got another name?"

"No, well, yeah. That's a different story for a different time. Come on, we didn't gather the village near the fence to keep them waiting," Johnson nudged her as he walked away. They came upon a long wooden fence in the middle of a flat, no-man's land. There was a small group of twenty people here, all adults between the ages of 19-55. They all looked at Johnson in awe, as though Jesus himself was walking before them. Albeit, a little bit vulgar, and highly more violent, but Jesus nonetheless. In front of Johnson there was a table. On top of it, there were several pistols, knives, and two rifles. Both rifles were bolt-action from the prewar era. The pistols were the common Colt 1911 magnums which populated both pre and post war America. Every one looked to Johnson as he looked at the weapons on the table. To ensure that he still knew what he was doing, he picked up the rifle first. He began to disassemble it first.

He began by pulling back the bolt to make sure there was no ammunition in it. There wasn't, so he pulled the trigger while pulling on the bolt to remove it. He set the bolt back on the table. He then removed the cleaning rod from underneath the barrel. Setting it down next, he then removed the rings from the wooden body itself. He lifted the upper wooden coating on the weapon, then used a screwdriver on the table to unscrew the receiver and remove it. He inspected the weapon and the barrel. Satisfied, he then put it back together, making careful note of the condition of the weapon.

"Alright then, today, we're going to be attending Firearm University, or FU for short. Does any one here have any experience firing a gun?" a single person raised there hand. "What kind of weapon?"

"A shotgun sir!" the twenty-something called out. He was shaky as Johnson called him up to join him.

"What's your name?" Johnson asked as he began to make sure the weapon was ready.

"Uhh. It is, uhh. Guh-Gary Ramirez. I mean, ehem, Gary Ramirez sir!" The young man began to state with a hint of confidence clearly hidden beneath fear and apprehension. Very well hidden at that.

"Ramirez, you see those bottles over there?" Johnson asked and pointed to a group of bottles on the fence. Gary shook his head furiously. "Those bottles are nothing more than cannibalistic bastards of raiders. They aren't worth the bullets to end their miserable little existence. They terrorize your village, and just shot your dog. Your fucking dog man! I want you to KILL those sons of bitches!" Johnson barked. Ramirez faked a scowl. "Are you bullshitting me boy? Get MAD! Kill them!" Johnson once again ordered. Ramirez rose the rifle to his shoulder to fire a round.

"Stop!" Johnson ordered. He pointed to a little boy in the crowd now gathering near-by. "Lay on the ground and close your eyes son." The boy did as he was instructed. "You see that Gar-bear? That little boy is now DEAD because you happened to accidentally point your weapon at him and it went off. You amateur child killer! ALWAYS and I mean ALWAYS look to where your gun is pointing. You damn well better be sure the only thing looking down the barrel of this killing machine is something you want dead! Muzzle awareness! Guns kill, and they do NOT care who." Johnson scolded. He then turned his attention to the boy on the ground, "thanks for playing, go ahead and live your life." he told the lad with a much more calm and less malicious voice. He nodded, and skipped merrily away.

"Now since Gary fucking Oak can't handle a weapon without killing all of his friends, who wants to come up next?" Johnson looked into the crowd. The crowd, hesitant after the last display, avoided his laser-like gaze. Suddenly, a voice emerged from the crowd. "I will." The crowd looked at one another, trying to determine who was Ballsy McGee. After a little bit of looking, a young woman walked forward. She was young, no more than twenty years at max.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" Johnson asked her. She shook her head in response.

"Well the finest clay always requires shaping before sculpting. Come hither." Johnson said to her. She slowly walked forward to him. Johnson eyed her up and saw what he was looking for, strong wrists and enough of some form of experience to be able to comprehend the delicate procedure he was about to demonstrate.

"Alright, now, what is your name miss?" Johnson asked, his tone of aggression still hidden within his throat, ready to be sprung at any given moment.

"Ellie Williams," she coolly replied. Her tone was apathetic and although hints of interest were embedded in it, nothing especially stand-out could be heard.

"What no "sir"?" Johnson asked. He threw out the bait, he wanted to yell, it made him feel good. Few civilians realize that you do NOT call an NCO sir, unless you want an ass-chewing _really_ badly.

"I do believe you are a Sergeant, not a Lieutenant. I'll save my "sir's" for the chain of command." Holy fuck, she passed the test. Odd, something wasn't right. Johnson beckoned to the 1911's on the table. He held one in his hand, muzzle aimed at the ground.

"Any idea what this is, and how to use it?" Johnson implored. At this point, he wasn't sure on what to expect. Ellie replied that she had no idea. Johnson then held the .45 caliber pistol in his hand as he began his history lesson. "This is America's sweetheart, the Colt .45 Caliber Model 1911. You can call it a Colt 45, or an M1911 for short. This has killed more people in the name of Liberty than McDonalds had in the name of obesity! This gun was made to help the US Soldiers during the invasion of the Philippines during the early 1900's. This tasteful little bastard will punch a delicious sized hole in ANY person who dares to stand on the business end of it. There are four major components which EVERYONE should make sure to remember! Trigger, Safety, Mag-release, and Slide! The trigger is that delightful little device that you pull to make bad people go away! Whenever you are not in the position to kick ass, make certain that the weapon has its safety on! This safety will prevent the weapon from firing, which will make sure that you don't shoot a hole in yourself when you go to grab it from your holster. This button right here is the mag-release, you press it to drop the magazine. A magazine contains the bullets necessary to feed the weapon. Make sure that you always carry the ammo needed for the job. Finally, this slide needs to be cocked back after you reload. If you slide it back, you will put another round in the chamber to make it ready to fire. If you are going to finish firing the gun, make sure when you remove the weapon back, you pull the slide back and flip the safety on to lock it into place. Now then, Ms. Williams, take the weapon." Johnson explained. He was about to yell his head off, when he realized that she took care to make sure the muzzle was never aimed at any body. She aimed her weapon down range. As she did, Johnson adjusted her stance and explained to the audience the proper way to stand to fire a weapon. The lesson continued after Ellie had successfully managed to hit five out of five targets. Johnson took care to explain to each of the audience how to fire and maintain a weapon.

He not only taught them how to fire a weapon, but taught them that cleaning and repairing a gun is quintessential to long term use. He showed them each how to properly clean the weapons, even with only scavenged materials. A toothbrush is better than nothing at cleaning out a rifle's barrel. He disassembled and reassembled the weapons before everyone's eyes, then instructed them each on how to do it. With luck, perhaps this rag-tag militia could actually blossom into a combat-ready fighting force. After expending a large amount of ammo at the range, Johnson decided to teach the militia in proper hand-to-hand fighting.

"Now, we're going to learn something called Krav Maga. Guessing by the confused looks on your faces, you have no idea what I am talking about. Krav Maga is what I did to take out those guys _without _a gun. In Krav Maga, there is only one rule: Do whatever it takes to win. If you have to bite, gouge eyes, beat a person with an improvised weapon, whatever it is, do it! Now, I'm going to teach you a few techniques to disarm someone who has a knife, or a gun against you. In addition, I'm going to teach you to beat somebody who may be stronger than you,or has more martial arts experience. The only thing that I have to caution you is this. In training, hold back, but once you get out there and you are forced to use what you learned here today, use any means at your disposal to make sure that you and any one with you gets out of there alive." Johnson showed the proper ways to disarm someone who has a knife by using their own lunge against them. Instead of using knives, the villagers used sticks that were in the area to make sure that no one would actually be hurt. They actually seemed to enjoy knocking each other to the ground. They felt like superheroes, tossing bad guys one way or another. For the first time in their peaceful existence, they began to feel unified as a town, and not only this, they were MORE than ready to defend themselves against enemy attacks.

Night began to fall to the sleepy town. Although many more wanted to continue training in the night, Johnson told them that for now, he was done instructing, and that he would explain more to them in the morning. The town gathered for a meaning like they did every night at the town center. A roaring fire was the only distinguishing land mark in the village, and above the file, there were many strange meats hanging on rotisseries. The elders of the village were given special seats to seem to tower over the others. The other seating consisted of logs simply scattered about. Johnson sat on one of the logs and turned his gaze to the flame. In the fire, he only saw the world. His mistake had literally set the world a blaze. His future was as uncertain as how they kept getting fuel for such a large fire. He was moving on a faint assumption that his wife and children made it to Raven Rock, and if Raven Rock was even still standing at this point. _Christ. Maryland is such a far distance from California. __I have the amount of gear offered to a pristine red-neck confederacy, 3,000 miles of territory inhabited by creatures that want to kill me, and radiation that wants to cook me out. The fuck have I gotten myself in to? _Johnson thought as he stared at the flames.

"Hey," a voice called behind him. Johnson offered no gaze nor thought as he continued to stare at the flame. His body was there, but his mind, off at a better time. "You there?" The voice asked again. Johnson offered not even a blink, but stared into the wood's combustion. His life had been built around war, ironic that such a life was so incredibly useful now. What was he getting himself into? "Space man, return to Earth." Johnson finally batted an eye and a slight gaze. It was the woman from Earlier, Ellie. He looked at her for a second, then back in the fire. "Something on your mind?" she asked him.

"No. Leave me be." He said softly, gaze never averting the fire in front of him.

"Where did you learn to fight like that? No one around here has ever seen that before." She asked him, again, Johnson did not rotate his head. He simply adopted a thousand-yard stare, unblinking. "I served, once. That is another story, for another time though. You need only know this, I will help out here, then I will move on. I have a duty I need to maintain, and I cannot afford the time to stay here for very long," Johnson stated bluntly. He was not a conversationalist and if they were looking for a friend, they better look elsewhere. Once he served his obligation, he would move onward.

"Here, eat this," Ellie offered him a plate of who knows what. Johnson took it. His Ranger instinct being to eat what food he could now, every morsel of it, since he did not know when he would eat later. The meat was bitter, and the corn that accompanied it very dry. He ate every single piece of it. He then literally cleaned the plate. He was still viewing the fire, when another person spoke.

"To our newest friend! The mysterious Mr. Johnson!" the man ordered a toast to his name. Johnson didn't bat an eyelash as the town raised their glasses in cheer. "My brothers and sisters, soon we will return to those bandits for a little payback. Mister Johnson taught us to provide for the common defense, now we will promote the general welfare!" This was not going nearly as planned.

"Enough!" Johnson rose suddenly enough to startle the others at the fire. "You NEED to stay disciplined! A good warrior realizes that the only time to fight is when it is do or die! A warrior is not stirred to battle by acts of greed or revenge! An eye for an eye will make the world go blind! I taught you these skills for _defense! _Not _offense! _If you want any more of my help, then this talk of revenge ends now!" He ordered to everyone at the campfire. They all huddled backwards and looked around. Johnson still was extremely intimidating, and to the ignorant villagers, they might have seen him as an alpha-male of the pack. Tomorrow, Johnson would lead the villagers in something that might seem more difficult to manage, and more educated than simple fighting technique. He would teach them in the tactical aspects of warfare. Ambush, overwhelming, and room clearing. Useful skills should somebody be taken hostage. These skills would no doubt be the difference between life and death for the people of Ashling. Or what is likely soon to be the military state of Ashling. Johnson stared at the fire afterwards as others began to return to their homes, quietly nodding off and falling to sleep in the middle of the night.

**Hello beautiful people of Fanfiction. I apologize for the late update, I had a bunch of work I needed to get caught up on and I needed to catch up on my sleep. In case you haven't noticed, the names of all the characters thus-far within the post-war section of the story are based on fictional and non-fictional people of the wild west, military films/games/novels, and more. If you can decode any of them, good on you! What lies next in store for the town of Ashling? Will the restless city be stirred to offensive action against the bandits? Will the bandits make the fool-hardy mistake of fighting a now extremely combative brahmin village? More of this and more from your friendly neighborhood disk jockey, Three-dog! Ooowwwwwww!**


	7. Chapter 7: The Citadel

Chapter: 7

The Citadel

**Hello beautiful people of fanfiction! Just wanted to say howdy and what not, normally there is some form of an address to ya'll, but this time I'm gonna do it in the beginning. Why? Because I love all of you, that is why. I wanted to announce that I have begun outlining my next story, _NCRevolution _a story that takes place following the events of New Vegas, during a quick and decisive win from NCR forces. It will follow a path revolving around, what else? A revolution/civil war as NCR begins to tear itself apart. All ideas will be considered as the story is still in the outlining phase, it will be published following this story's conclusion, which still has a while to go. **

**I'd like to extend a special shout-out to the loyal viewer TSCSupremeCommander. Keep it real brotha.**

They had worked all throughout the day. Ashling was quickly becoming heavily fortified and the inhabitants began to dig in to prepare a proper defensive position. Tomorrow, the raiders would once again come as they had every week for as long as many residents could remember. They would be expecting their weekly Brahmin allotment, but they would find nothing but bullets this time. The town had unified under Johnson's guidance, and the tactics and techniques they had learned quickly led to the formation of small squads. With the basic knowledge down, the tactics down, Johnson had been making sure that they became Ranger ready. While Johnson disapproved of the name "Ashling Rangers", he had commented that they were more like an "Ashling First Recon" and the name stuck. The town was actively mobilizing and making ready for war. They had a constant patrol by this time, a patrol was made of two people, one with a rifle, the other with a pistol and knife. The rule of thumb was that if anyone in the group heard rifle shots, that would mean the patrol was in combat with an armed hostile, and that the rest of the village should mobilize for battle. However, this had not happened yet as the only thing that the patrols had run into was a single very scared and confused traveler. This traveler was given temporary quarter in the village. Johnson eyed at the defenses, and noticed that there was no physical barrier between the village and the outside world. No walls, no sandbags for cover, not even a fence. Ammo was going to be a necessity, and the small caliber weapons they had weren't exactly going to be the bane of the raiders' existence.

"Recon, listen up! Based on the map you provided me, and my old world knowledge, I know the location of a prewar missile silo. I need two people to come with me to this silo to investigate. There might be weapons, armor, and equipment to hold this village. Do we have any volunteers to come with me?" Johnson asked. There was little time for thinking as the answers quickly came out. Ellie, and Gary volunteered to go with him. Gary was still a little bit sullen about earlier, but he quickly learned to get over it. Ellie was a marksman with the rifle, and Gary had a good physical condition, and Johnson's conditioning had only elevated Gary's ability. He was a fast runner, which could certainly come in handy if push came to shove. The silo was located roughly ten miles from the village towards the south. It would likely be an all day journey, and they would have to return at night, but hopefully the goods they would obtain would be worth it. They made their way out the southern end of the village, using the trajectory of the early morning sun as a beacon for the east. As they set across the desert sands, the orange sky began to yield its standard color of dirty-green. As they were walking, they came to a road which extended into the desert. At the end of this road, three decently armored men approached with what appeared to be automatic weapons.

"_Get down!" _Johnson whispered to them. The three ducked into a small drainage ditch on the side of the road, from this slope, they would be concealed from the incoming people unless they were being specifically hunted.

"_Psst. Johnson, did you see what they had? That could be some serious loot if we were to pick em off. Let's actually USE those tactics we learned!" _Gary replied. He was eager to get some decent equipment over a field hand's attire.

"_No. Rule of the wastes is never to fuck something that will fuck you up, let's lay low._" Ellie replied to contradict Gary. Johnson was now in one of those classic instances of Cognitive Dissonance, or holding two conflicting ideals simultaneously. He had to act, a decision was needed now. If he waited, the situation would solve itself, and the three would pass by. If he acted now, one of the three of them could be wounded, or all of them. With sudden clarity, his decision came to him. Johnson beckoned to them to be quiet and remain here, then grabbed his rifle and ran out of the ditch, he slung his rifle over his shoulder.

"Holy shit!" the man in the front yelled as he jumped back. One of the others caught him, and the third readied his weapon and aimed it at Johnson's chest.

"Ready to die motherfucker?" the man asked, as his eyes cut into Johnson. Johnson looked back without emotion.

"If you're going to shoot, it's best not to miss. I notice you're using a Colt M16A7, you know that entire line of weaponry has had some nasty performance issues in adverse conditions. You'd be much better using a Kalashnikov. Much more reliable in the desert," Johnson stated bluntly. The man took a step back and fired a round in the air. Johnson didn't even blink.

"Ss...See! It works fine!" The man stammered. Johnson walked closer, straight into their personal "bubble". The men were a combination of confused and scared. Never before had any raider just walked up to them in the middle of the open, made no demands, and that dictated so much ballistics knowledge. Johnson then approached them further, and grabbed the rifle from the man. The man resisted at first, but Johnson was easily able to swat it away from him. To the surprise of the others, he pointed the weapon at the ground and pulled the charging handle, a light brown round clattered to the road. Johnson then pulled out the magazine and inspected the rounds in it.

"Really? You're feeding this man-killer junk rounds? You know, they said that God created man, then Colt made them equal. This piece of trash is just as likely to kill you as it is to kill the other guy," Johnson's statement bit into the other three. The terrifying presence that Johnson held about him like an aura was clearly homing in. "Who are ya'll boy?" Johnson asked, his breath going down the man's neck.

"We...We're Gun Runners! We have a factory to the south which produces only the highest quality weaponry in the wasteland! We were headed this way to s...scout for new economic opportunities!" the man stammered.

"Arms merchants, that's lovely. Hey, here is what I want you to do. I want you to go back to your boss and inform him of a town near here called Ashling, tell him that they have a large interest in acquiring some better firepower. Tell him also, that they are willing to trade for some decent rifles, whether they be bolt-action, or other. Go on now, scoot!" Johnson pushed them away. Little did Johnson know at the time, but there was no boss within the Gun Runners, they were more of a hive-collective than a monarchy. He had just encountered three of the gunsmiths, and you better believe that they were going to produce!

"What the hell?" Gary asked. He was a bit annoyed, a result of likely being too ambitious to back down when needed. "We could have easily killed them, and made off with their weapons!"

"No offense, but Colt is not a very reliable manufacturer for adverse conditions. I personally love the weapons, but they were shoddy in Anchorage, they were shoddy in Karachi, and they were shoddy in Ulaanbaatar. Not to mention, the ammunition they had loaded in those weapons was clearly mass produced pieces of grade-A crap. They looked like reformed tin-cans packed with gunpowder."

"You'd be surprised..." Ellie began to say. Johnson shrugged and told the group it was time to go.

"Oh and by the way, what the hell are those places you were talking about? I've never heard of those tribes before," Gary asked. Johnson remembered that these were people born after the apocalypse, and as such, most likely had never heard of the sins of a nation. They were ignorant to the world that had lie before them, likely only receiving tales past down orally from a grandfather's dad experience.

"Anchorage, Karachi, Ulaanbaatar, those were some large cities before the bombs dropped. Very significant during my time. I don't want to talk about them, so drop it," Johnson abruptly stated.

"Man, you never tell us anything, you just show us something insane, then act like nothing happened. Like some sort of wizard or something," Gary complained.

"Are you at least gonna tell us how you learned to fight?" Ellie asked. Johnson looked at the two with menace in his eyes. They were only two children wanting a good war story from a mysterious stranger. However, his mission dictated that he wouldn't stay there long any way, so he might as well tell.

"Alright, I'll talk as we walk, so listen closely. This story is going be shortened because I don't want to get into the details, no one needs to know exactly what I did. I am not from this time period, I was from a time before the war, before all of the shit you see around you happened. I was born before what is now known as the Resource Wars took place. I was able to see first-hand the destruction of the world. It is...something I'm not proud of for...reasons," Johnson stated. His eyes gazing out into the distance.

"What? Were you in like a vault or something? How did you survive?" Gary asked bewildered.

"No. I was part of the United States Military before the bombs fell. We were Rangers, trained to be some of the best America could throw at somebody. Sure, you had your SEALs, and your Deltas, but overall, we were the more well-known and although we were slightly less trained than either of the two above, we were still one of the best fighting forces in the world. As for how I got my physical training, that was Krav Maga. While they don't teach the advanced techniques as a part of training, I was trained by an Israeli instructor for about two months while I was in Israel. A country that was glorious and strong during my time, despite being the first country hit with nuclear weapons. I'll go into the details another time, perhaps. For the time being, we have a silo to enter." Johnson beckoned to the fenced-off area in front of him. To an untrained eye, the location was inconspicuous. It was in the middle of nowhere, and at first glance, there was nothing special about it. It was a small building with an American flag in front of it. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence with signs that, although faded from years of neglect, still warned people that it was government property and that trespassing was strictly forbidden. Despite its casual appearance, inside there was either: A. A nuclear warhead on top of a minuteman-class intercontinental ballistic missile, or B. The former location of one. Regardless, there was likely to be some form of armory to salvage. Silos started equipping themselves with an armory in case rioters ever found the location of it. Prewar protests often found such desolate military installations easy pickings for unleashing their rage. Johnson knew more than a few soldiers who had to fire on a crowd of civilians for such a reason. Johnson inspected the gate, and noted that the gate had already got a hole torn in it, and the lock had been broken off. As he opened the gate, dust scattered off of it, and the gate resisted the movement. Johnson forced it open though, and the posse walked up to the heavy iron door to the bunker.

An old computer terminal was affixed to the wall next to the bunker. Johnson was doubtful, but seeing the scorch marks from the other attempts at entry, he decided to go up to the computer. The computer booted up.

Welcome to RobCo industries termlink

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED USAGE MAY RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION. DO NOT USE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION.

Input Password _

Johnson though for a long moment. Password...Hmm...Password... How about... Guest? Johnson typed it into the keyboard.

WELCOME USER! No way! It can't be! Jesus Christ, that is like babytown frolics! Johnson used the terminal which had a bunker door unlock key. Oddly, there wasn't a confirmation message or a secondary password or anything. The budget cuts must have hit the terminals hard. The door to the bunker opened, and the cold air leaving it was clearly visible in the late morning sun.

"Alright guys, keep it close in here, we have no idea what could still be in these bunkers," Johnson ordered, the two nodded and followed him in, the dark halls of the bunker appearing motionless.

The bunker was extremely dark, little could be seen within the area the light did not touch. It was likely to be darker still deeper inside. Johnson decided to take point. He turned on a flashlight, and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He pulled out his 1911, a strong sidearm for such an occasion. He held the flashlight under the pistol, using the hand holding the light to stabilize his grip on the hand cannon. He moved forward, slowly. God knows what traps could lie down here. Had the crew set mines down before they got the hell out of dodge? Did the crew never get the hell out of dodge? Will this be a concrete tomb beneath the sands of California? Johnson froze. He dropped lower to the ground. He knew what he heard now. He heard...growls. What the hell was down here in this forbidding mausoleum? Johnson ordered the group to fan out and investigate the room. Inside the room, there were a bunch of filing cabinets, destroyed computers, desks, and a skeleton. Johnson walked up to it slowly, after the freaky stuff in the wasteland, he expected it to stand up and slap him. The clothes on the lifeless cadaver had disintegrated long ago, only threads remain. It was only now that Johnson noticed the musty smell in the air. It smelled of rot and moisture. He looked to the other two, and Ellie looked like she wanted to gag. Gary was too busy sorting through the cabinets.

"Hey boss, this is kinda odd...But...I got some bottle caps in these..." he stated to Johnson. For no apparent reason, there were seven nuka-cola bottle caps inside the cabinets, placed there for a reason Johnson may never know. Johnson looked again to the skeleton which he noticed still had its dog tags.

_Rest in peace Specialist Lewis, may you find comfort in the knowledge that the war is over. _Johnson whispered. He never knew the Specialist, but he felt the connection shared by all members of the armed forces. A certain feeling that binded them as brothers, even if they had never met. Johnson put the tags in his pocket, should he find any more fallen comrades in the wastes, he would hold onto their tags as well. Let those who died for his mistake remind him to be better next time. It was then that Johnson noticed a note besides the man. It was a small, handwritten note. The note was written on paper that was designed to stand strong through the ages, as the army regarded anything a soldier could write down as possible intelligence to benefit their war resources.

_My Darling Jocelyn_

_I now realize that...you are gone. Perhaps not dead, perhaps you realized that you could have made it to Vault 12. Regardless, I refuse to believe that such a pretty face such as yours perished out there in the fire. I only wish I was still there to nurture the tiny flower we planted together. I know you won't receive this letter, but god knows I hope you received my others. Tell Veronica that her father died fighting overseas. It is much more fitting for her to know that her father died a hero than a coward in a bunker as the world erupts in fire. I don't want her to know that I...I pressed the button. We had reports that there was a possible missile launch from China, so Washington gave us the kill order. I followed that order to the letter...May God have mercy on my soul._

Johnson wished Lewis was still alive. Someone to share what had happened with, someone to give hope to and receive hope from about their own loved ones in their own protected areas. A military man with standard military experience, someone able to be physically competent enough to aid in his survival out here. Oh well, you play with the hand you receive, no sense drawing on what could have been. His thoughts returned to that of being inside this bunker, who's iron door was now closed. Besides Johnson's flashlight, there was 0 light now inside the facility. When Ellie had gone to reopen the door, it was apparent that there was no opening mechanism for it, and Johnson prayed that it wasn't on any of those computers next to the door. If they were, then they would enjoy a slow dehydration-related death. Once again, Johnson heard a growl come from the facility. He was a bit on edge now, as the growl could not be placed to any wildlife that Johnson recognized. He gathered his group around him. The only findings so far was a keycard, and the random bottle caps. Johnson took pointed and they descended deeper downward. A metallic stairway led the way down.

The stairs were stained the color red by the rust thriving on it. The smell on the stairs was now stronger than the entrance, and Johnson put the collar of his shirt above his nose to keep from smelling it. He still led the way, slowly. In the next room, it appeared as though it was an analysis room. There was nothing in the room except for a large amount of computers which Johnson could have no hope of salvaging without the proper materials, and a few desks. Deciding them not to be worth the effort, he scanned his flashlight in the room, looking for a way to proceed. While scanning, with crimson color, writing on the wall screamed at him: STEP THREE. Johnson was taken back simply because he hadn't expected anything of the sort. The wall's crimson painting was unnatural, nothing like any dyes or markers that Johnson recognized. Johnson regained his composure and made way deeper into the facility. The air was cold and damp. The dripping of water heard in the distance. Johnson felt frigid from head to toe. He had served in Alaska, and this wasn't nearly as bad, but compared to the desert of California, he felt frozen. He continued moving, a fork in the road ahead of him. He could choose to go right, toward the sign smeared with red paint, or left, towards the sign labeled: CREW QUARTERS. He chose to go right. After all, a life of mystery is a great way to express the fact that you only live once. As he went down, a loud throaty growl could be heard, along with the company of light padded feet. Johnson scanned with his flashlight, and saw some sort of pinkish creature running towards him. Johnson barely had enough time to say what the fuck before the creature grabbed him, jaw snapping. Johnson tried to fight the creature, but the creature was quickly becoming strong. Using his strength brought up by his enhanced adrenal glands, he shook one arm free of the creature, and gave it a hardy kick forward. He used this opportunity to seize his pistol on the ground and fired a round blindly which homed in on the creatures head, tearing it off with ease. The ghastly skull landed with a sick explosion of gray matter and eyes nearby. Johnson caught his breath. Only one statement entered his mind. _This is some scary resident evil shit going on. As in, back when resident evil was good, not when it started to whore out to the larger audiences. _

"Does anyone *gasp* have any idea *gasp* what the hell that was?" Johnson asked. His two amigos had no idea either. Johnson walked up the body of the dead beast, and inspected it. Oddly, it still appeared humanoid, but it was extremely deformed. It had pinkish skin, tattered clothing, and the skin clung closely to the bone. Its strength had been high, yet at the same time it had low endurance since a single hand cannon round ravaged the creature. Puzzling still, is that on top of this beast's tattered clothing, he could clearly see a pair of dog tags. Johnson swiped the tags of Private Hank T. Richardson. There was typically a crew of four people in a silo, so far he only had two. Somewhere deeper in the facility, the bodies of the final two lie, or perhaps walked. In the crew quarters however, there was a single flickering light. The quarters seemed as though all hell had broken loose. The two bunks were overturned, maggot laced mattresses on the floor. Any table that had been in the room was converted into a makeshift barricade, a 10mm Pistol behind it. There was another hastily drawn map on it. It was an odd graph made of various X's, O's, and parenthesis on a regional map. Johnson had no idea what this message could have meant, he simply held onto it. No idea how it might benefit them. In picking it up, he noticed the note on the back. It stated:

_ Lewis, _

_ Bowman and Komala have taken a position in the armory. They are ranting about something which I have no idea of. Do NOT drink the water from the purifier. It tastes funny, and I think it has something to do with whatever it is that caused those two to go bat-shit insane. I need you to get to the surface and get out of here. I'll keep the others pinned in the armory as long as I can. _

_Godspeed._

Well at least that answered the question. Johnson, satisfied that anything of value had been taken from the room, went up the stairs back into the analysis room, then downstairs into what was apparently the armory. This was where the source of the growling can be heard. Johnson readied his firearm, no zombie was going to blind-side him this time. As he descended the staircase, he entered the room. It suddenly buzzed to life, and the light blinded Johnson who was caught off guard by it. Reeling backwards, he fell into Gary who hit his head on the staircase and complained, Johnson was about to make a wisecrack when a creepy face appeared right in front of his slowly adjusting eyes. Johnson, still stunned slightly from the light, barely remembered to pull his pistol up and fired four rounds into the beasts stomach to kill it. Scanning the glowing white room quickly for targets, he only found half of a skeleton. The lower half had been cannibalized, or disintegrated although it was much more likely that it was the former. Johnson pulled the tags off the last two dead soldiers, and realized that they confirmed what had been said in the previous note. First Lieutenant Cody S. Komala, and Private Archer D. Bowman. After staring at them for a second, Johnson's eyes darted around the room. STEP THREE, MAKE US WHOLE, and L WAS ONLY THE BEGININNING were carved into the walls with combat knives and painted on the walls with bloody hand prints. However, also in this room, jackpot. Johnson ran over to the lockers, and used the keycard to open all of them. Each of the first four lockers had three sets of good old sandy brown combat armor. Johnson quickly stripped down into his undershirt and long shorts. He then donned the armor, feeling like he was wearing clothing for the first time in awhile. Although still not as comfy or caring as his power armor, the combat armor would still provide ample protection and serve to be an effective way to ward off more than a single bullet. In the trunk beside the lockers, there was a large assortment of prewar weaponry. There were some great AER-14 Laser weapons for the avid marksman, but much more popular with the locals, there was an M40A5 sniper rifle, and three semi-automatic scoped marksman carbines. Along side the trunk, there were several ammo containers, the ones labeled contained 7.62mm rounds, 5.56 rounds, 10mm rounds, and a fair amount of microfusion cells. Johnson looked like a kid in a candy shop as he grabbed a marksman carbine and chambered a round with the 5.56 clips inside. The charging handle sled seamlessly. Johnson fired a round into the monster's corpse and the weapon still operated perfectly fine.

"Well now, Ashling is gonna love this." Johnson stated, a smirk appearing on his face for the first time in a while. The other two in the group looked puzzled as to how they were going to get all this equipment back home.

Johnson arrived with two fully outfitted First Recon and a rudimentary sled full of santa's goodies at about eleven at night. The fire from the town's bonfire was illuminating the town, like usual. Small children ran up to great the posse, but they kept their sense of discipline and kept pulling. As they reached the center, they dropped the sled to the wondering eyes of the villagers.

"I come bearing gifts of a forgotten age," Johnson stated. A solemn village elder walked up to him.

"Firewalker, something terrible has just transpired."

**Hello beautiful people of fanfiction. Sorry it took so long to publish this chapter, but I had a brief bout of writer's block right about the part where the Gun Runners appear. As you clearly see, I was able to overcome that, and deliver the largest chapter yet. If you catch the Archer reference about the bunker, I have to say good on you. That is my favorite comedy on TV, and if you haven't seen it, it contains some greater 14+ y/o humor. As always, please leave a review on how I can be better in this chapter. Also, any suggestions for future chapters and for my next story are GLADLY accepted, as I will be openly using fan based ideas in the future. There was some humor mixed in with parts of this chapter since I felt light hearted. As always, enjoy tonight and have a pleasant tomorrow. Expect a Chapter 8. on Tuesday or Wednesday. Ciao!**

**PS. I do know that some of the weapons I had listed are not actual current models. Since the Great War took place in 2077, I assumed a few upgrades to the various weapons had taken place, so they were renamed appropriately.**


	8. Chapter 8: Ezekiel 25:17

Chapter: 8

Ezekial 25:17

"What? What is it?" Johnson asked suddenly to the elder. The elder shook his head replied slowly.

"About an hour ago, we let our patrols down for the great feast. During this time, the barbarians plundered into our camp and made off with five of the children. Three boys and two girls. Who knows what terrible fate awaits them?" The elder glumly replied. He looked into Johnson's eyes just long enough to finish the verbal exchange. He then resumed his downward gaze.

"Oh hell no. Ramirez, Williams, Clarke, Erickson, you're with me. The only horrible thing that lies in wait is going to be a lot of dead bad guys. But before we go, time for ya'll to see the goodies that Papa Johnson brought home for the kids." Johnson kicked open the lockers, suits of Combat Armor fell out. He then carefully removed the marksman carbines and gave the sniper rifle to Ellie. He then proceeded to hand out the carbines, and gave each person ten clips each for the weapons. The only exception is that he gave Ellie only five clips. The extended mags on the rifle amounted to ten rounds a clip, so twenty five rounds would be more than enough for a marksman to subdue a compound. "Operating your new weapons is simple. You obviously know about the trigger. In the rear of the gun, below the sight, there is the charging handle," Johnson demonstrated, "pull it back to chamber a round or eject a round that is jammed in the weapon. If your weapon jams, pull the charging handle and attempt to clear the jam. The magazine release is in the front of the weapon, press the button right above the magazine to drop it. Any questions?" Johnson asked. No one extended any hands, the looks of determination on everyone's face clearly demonstrated dedication to the task ahead. This would be their first aggressive action against a group. This wasn't for self-defense, but rather, search and destroy. Today would be the day they united together as a unit for good.

"Ramirez, you know the way to the raider compound, take point," Johnson ordered, "everyone else, fan out. We don't want them to catch us in one grenade blast." The group departed from the town and made haste for the open ground of the wasteland. They were bloodthirsty, years of oppression coming to a close. Johnson however, was less bloodthirsty than others. A trained killer, his nerves were always on edge before a battle, any soldier was on edge in the calm before the storm. He realized that compared to the enemies he had fought before, these bandits seemed like roaches to be exterminated.

"Sergeant, you got any words of wisdom for us? This is our first time attacking any one..." Clarke stated. Alex Clarke was a younger member of the group at age seventeen, but he was the most ambitious. When Johnson had first begun to instruct the villagers, Clarke had listened intently and hinged on every last word. He looked forward to the day when Ashling would be safe, and the villagers could return to their old ways of farming and cultivating.

. "Not really. Words don't win battles, soldiers do. The biggest thing we need to remember here is to keep our heads. When the bullets start flying, listen to my orders. We don't need any one running off and playin' hero, heroes get themselves killed. Remember, the goal here is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his," Johnson quoted. Truthfully, little he could say would prepare them for battle.

"I've never fired at a person before," Gary confided, "only radscorpions and a few bighorner."

"The first time you blow someone away is not an insignificant event; that being said, there are some assholes in the world who just _need _to be shot. The goal here is to find the enemy that threatens our experiment and kill every one of them until they get so sick of killing they leave our freedoms intact. There are hunters and there are victims. By your discipline, cunning, obedience, and alertness, you will decide if you are a hunter or victim," Johnson stated. As he stated this, he used this time to gaze upon his surroundings. The surrounding terrain was hilly and still had the uniformality of desert and minor shrubbery. Their armor would blend in perfectly with the desert sands, especially at night. Johnson began to remember his old squad. They too had acted in a cohesive fashion to free hostages before. It had actually come unintentionally too...

_"What is this? Why are you here?" A young Arabian man spat at him. The man was actually the hostage, he had been held by his Turkish captors for reasons unknown, and the unit had stumbled upon the group while deployed in Syria. Syria was a cesspit for hostile activity lately, all anti-american groups seemed to congregate there and "bash on the infidels while enjoying donuts." Warhawks within the American government wanted to engage in full out warfare with the nation while the more pacifistic nations simply wanted to ignore the problem and thought that if they simply ignored it, they would eventually dissipate. Congress eventually came to a compromise that special forces operators would launch a small joint task force to __eliminate key individuals. _

_ "Who do you work for?" Bradley asked the man._

_ "Who do I work for? I'm tied to a chair, help me out here man," he replied. His thick accent leading to many rolled "R's". Johnson punched Davidson in the hip as he began to utter a stupid and racist remark. Instead, Davidson decided to mouth the word asshole. He slung his assault rifle on his back. Despite acting like the team idiot, Davidson was actually the team's medic and extremely intelligent when pressured to do so, the problem was that he, like many Americans, was lazy. Davidson began to inspect the prisoner and found no signs of abuse that seemed life threatening. There was a beating here, a pistol whip there, some dehydration and sleep deprivation over there..._

_ "Boss, this guy can hoof it out on his own," Davidson confirmed to Bradley. Bradley rubbed his chin in thought._

_ "Walk? I cannot walk, I will die out there. You, American, you will take me back in one of your helicopters. Take me back to Jeddah!" The man pleaded._

_ "We can't afford it now, we have a mission we need to carry out, and we __**will **__carry it out," Bradley explained._

_ "No! I will die out there! If you will not take me with you, then I have no choice but to tell the Syrians you are here! You all will hang!" He threatened. _

_ "Oh will we?" Jefferson replied, he pulled out his side arm. It was silenced so he would be able to fire and not make a peep._

_ "You do not frighten me American, I know your rules. You are not allowed to fire on a noncombatant who doesn't fire first. It is murder," the man confidently retorted. Jefferson sighed a sigh of hate. He hated the bullshit that politicians had thrust on them. These "rules of engagement" were made by someone who had never even been on a battlefield except to give a speech. They dictated what soldiers could and couldn't do to save face with some of the other countries, and to make it seem as though soldiers weren't barbaric. In reality, it didn't change the appearance of the warriors, and it only got a lot of American blood spilled when it rightly shouldn't have._

_ "Then we're going to have to let you go," Bradley stated, "we are leaving, let's move Rangers." The man ran off into the distance outside, yelling at various important people he found on the streets. _

"Sergeant, we are here," Gary whispered to him. Johnson shook his head as reality once again faded in. He saw the compound they were about to assault in the valley below them. The building they were encamped in was set up was an old destroyed office in the middle of nowhere. There was about four floors on one half of the building, while the other half behind it had only two floors due to the crumbling deterioration the building was experiencing. There was a sentry in both the front and the back of the building. They hadn't been detected thus far since their camouflage allowed them to blend in easily to the surroundings, especially for a drunken and drugged up sentry. Johnson drew a map in the dirt as he looked to the terrain for how best to attack. His force of five was on top of a hill overlooking the office. To the east, there was another hill with a similar strategical placement. Johnson told Ellie that once they broke it off here, that she would go over to that hill and provide overwatch for sniper. She wouldn't fire at the enemy until either Johnson gave the order, or until the bullets already started flying. At the same time, this terrain actually served a great killzone. Gary Ramirez was the fastest runner, so he would be invaluable to lead these bandits into an easy trap. On top of the hill, there was a large cluster of rocks. Gary would serve as human bait, and run down toward the compound, shoot the sentry, fire several rounds off in the air to alert the enemy, then take off in a sprint back up the hill and past this position. At the bandits chased after him, they would pass this rock and on queue, Clarke and Erickson would pop up and start firing at the bandits, the bandits would then turn to fight the newfound threat as Johnson would emerge from the rocks in the direction that Gary was running in. With this L shaped killzone, neither friendly force would be exposed to the other's fire, and would easily cut down the bandits. Should any run away, Ellie would pick them off with her rifle while concealed on the hill. With the large force down, Johnson, Erickson, Clarke, and Ramirez would storm the building and clear it out.

"Sound like a plan?" Johnson asked the team. They all nodded in agreement.

"Except for the part where I act as bullet fodder," Ramirez complained.

"Aww come on now, don't be a bitch and pansy out on me here. Think of it more as being...Uh...Well, I'm sure all the ladies will admire you for your bravery!" Johnson offered. Okay, so maybe it was as sketchy as it sounded.

"I'm doing it one way or another, aren't I?" Ramirez asked. Johnson nodded in response. Ramirez sighed then stated "well, guess I better be ready." Johnson looked over to the hill side where Ellie was waiting. The combat armor was blending in perfectly with the surrounding area. The other three assumed their positions while Ramirez walked down the hill.

"Hey lookey lookey! We got ourselves a-" the man was cut off as a round entered his head, then three more slammed into the sides of the building.

"Look alive gents! We got ourselves a stooge over here!" A man said, the war cry of the bandits could be heard. It was an intimidating sound, and Johnson saw Clarke slowly shaking back and forth, the nerves were clearly making themselves known here. Johnson looked up to see Ramirez hauling ass towards him. As he did, what must have been ten raiders were in pursuit. Johnson popped totally out of cover and began to fire into the crowd.

_Crack crack crack crack! _Johnson's rifle sounded off. The bandits, unsuspecting of this turn of events were at first surprised. Three of them fell before they even realized what just happened. As they got their wits together, they began to fire at Johnson who took cover behind the rock. As they started to advance toward him while firing, Clarke and Erickson ignited the survivors. Two began to panic and took off in full flight for their base. Johnson cut down one as the loud boom from a sniper rifle took out the other. The bullet hit the man in his arm at the shoulder and completely tore it off. He didn't die instantly, but died from bleeding out as he rolled on the floor clutching at the stub of where his arm had once been.

"Recon! Let's move up!" Johnson called out. The other three nodded and took position behind Johnson. With Johnson leading the way and concentrating with his eyes on forward, the number two man watched the right side, the number three man the left, and the number four covered the rear. As they approached the door, a woman leapt around the corner with a shotgun in hand. Johnson yelled, "contact!" as he shot the woman in the hand, then the head to drop her. He entered the ruined doorway and the squad started to fan out to search the building. As he did, a younger man lunged at him with a flimsy kitchen knife. Johnson gave a hearty kick like a mule into the man's chest which knocked him backwards. As he staggered, Johnson dropped his rifle and pulled out his pistol, shooting the man three times in the chest to bring him down. He reloaded his pistol, then holstered it once again and picked up his rifle. Johnson knew that he had already fired a large amount of rounds, probably eighteen or nineteen, so he reloaded it as well. Heart pounding, he ordered the squad to take a buddy and clear each room. Ramirez and Erickson moved to clear the first door on the left, Johnson and Clarke the one on the right. As they began to move, they heard another boom and a slightly overweight man fell from the third story with a bullet in his chest. Johnson and Clarke lined up along the door which was still surprisingly intact.

Johnson grabbed the handle and slowly turned it. He then pushed open the door with great force and cleared the "fatal funnel" before proceeding to his corner, Clarke right behind him checking the opposite corner. A man with a pistol was in Johnson's corner. He was frightened and fired wildly with his 9mm Pistol, the shots were wild, but one still hit Johnson in the chest. Since it was a small caliber, however, the bullet did little more than ping as it hit and cause Johnson a mild amount of discomfort. This was far more insignificant than the 5.56 retaliation that Johnson then returned with to the bandit. The man dropped, and Johnson's sector was clear. He turned and saw that Clarke was fighting a man who wielded a small hatchet. The man tried an overhead swing, and Clarke used this as an advantage to take the man off balance and knock him to his feet with a quick leg sweep, he then finished him off with a single rifle round.

"ONE OK!" Johnson yelled.

"TWO OK!" Clarke also sounded off. Off in the distance, more yelling was heard.

"THREE OK!" "FOUR OK!" Everyone was still up and fighting, that was good. God knows how many other people were in this building.

"ROOM CLEAR!" Johnson acknowledged, the same was then yelled by "Three" AKA Gary Ramirez. Johnson and Clarke then encountered another door way, which Johnson then called out to Clarke. Communication is vital in combat, even if you see something that the other soldier might see, you still call it out to be sure. They lined up against the door way again and performed the same tactic they had in the room before. This time however, the only vision they had was that of a single raider escaping through the door way at the end of the hall and disappearing. A door was then heard opening and closing and the sounds of boots running down a staircase could be heard. Johnson sounded off that the room was clear, and they did their role-call again. Everyone was still up, and Johnson and Clarke proceeded to clear the room the bandit had just run into. As they entered, the room, the room was empty, but a large steel door stood against the wall. It was on the opposite wall of the entrance of the building, but was still standing strong. Johnson heard the other team getting ready to clear the room they were already in.

"Friendlies!" Johnson called out to them and held his weapon up in one hand, and his bare hand up in the other. Ramirez and Erickson entered the room and the entire squad was reunited for the first time. Johnson looked to each one of them and asked if anyone had gotten injured at all. Erickson rolled his head and you could see where four rounds had hit him in the chest.

"Man, this body armor is amazing! If I was wearing what I used to wear, this would have been the death of me," Erickson was just relieved to be alive

"What about mentally, you all still in the game?" Johnson asked.

"It was a bit hard to kill the first guy," Clarke stated, "but it gets easier with each kill. Your adrenaline forces you to focus on killing them as a means of survival."

"Hey, focus, we got a job to finish," Johnson reminded. The door in front of them now led straight down into the heart of the facility. The fighting was going to likely be the hardest here since the raiders have had time to regroup and this area was likely already fortified. Johnson nodded to the door, and the squad stacked up. Once again, Johnson opened it and was instantly met with a raider who rushed him with a lead pipe, Johnson was pushed back initially by the raider, but he quickly recovered, and with his stronger reflexes quickly gained the upper hand. After slight struggling, Johnson was able to wrestle the weapon from his hands and struck him repeatedly in the head. Blood and bits of skull flew into the air after each hit, quickly spurting on Johnson's face. He wiped it from his eyes, and the man fell to the ground. His right leg twitching, but he wasn't _there _any more. "I'm good!" Johnson replied as he dropped the lead pipe on the ground and grabbed his rifle again. He pulled the charging handle back to make sure no dust got in. Confident on the weapon's reliability, he took point once again and descended into the basement.

"HEY ASSHOLES! WHY DON'T YOU GO ON AND GIT BEFORE WE KILL YA?" A voice called from the darkness.

"But if I flee now I might trip over the two dozen raiders I killed to get here!" Ramirez called into the cave. Johnson told Ramirez to shush and maintain oral discipline. Ramirez was quiet as the raider called out various profanities and taunts. As he continued to spew verbal garbage, his voice began to crack a little bit with hints of nervousness.

"Hey...Where you bunch of fruitcakes hiding?" He called out. At this point, he just wanted a reply, any reply would do. Johnson silently told the men to take positions along side the sides of the room. The room the man was speaking from was shaped as though it were an arena. In the middle, there was plenty of blood stains along its cracked tile floor. The only light in the room suspended over the middle by a loose chain and swinging back and forth. In the middle of the room, a man with no shirt on and long pants paced back and forth. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a machete. Johnson chose to reveal himself before his squad-mates. "Welcome to the party! Come on, let's dance. No guns." The man stated. Johnson dropped his weapon, but as an added bonus, he also took of his armor, then pulled a surprise. This resulted in the man bursting out laughing.

"REALLY? A SHOVEL? OH THAT IS RICH!" Johnson smirked.

"Not a shovel, my friend," Johnson proceeded to unfold the weapon. "This is the Entrenching tool, known also simply as the E-Tool."

"It'll be known as the pleasure tool when I shove it up your ass!" The foe replied. Johnson stated nothing, but held it ready at the attack position. The bastard had no idea that the E-Tool was one of Johnson's favorite weapons. A great weapon for close quarters, yet it can still serve many other purposes at the same time. He stood ready, his shirt lined with sweat along the chest and the back, he wasn't tired, and he knew his body could easily handle the stress.

The first move in this game was the raider's. He lunged at Johnson with his machete. Johnson decided to have a little fun, so like a bear, he decided to play with his kill. He moved out of the way, then bopped the man on the back of his head. This angered the raider who then rushed him. This time, however, Johnson kicked the man in the chest and sent him back. He stumbled to the ground and quickly got up.

"Come on asshole! Fight me!" he barked as he scrambled to his feet.

"I'm trying, but you won't let me," Johnson replied. This time, the raider approached slower with his machete out. As he swung for Johnson, Johnson parried it with the E-Tool, then used the edge of the tool to fling the weapon away like a toothpick. He then smacked the raider across the face with it. It knocked him back and he yelled at the pain the weapon had left on his cheek. If Johnson wanted to, that shot could have easily been a kill shot, but still, he enjoyed the man's suffering. While the raider wheeled back in pain, Johnson applied a nice amount of force to the man's shin with the tool. Again, the raider doubled down in pain. As he bent over to grab his shin instinctively, Johnson then used this moment to deliver a firm boot to the man's chin. He fell over onto his back, and lie there for a second, motionless and grunting in pain. Johnson dropped his Entrencher and instead pulled out his side arm. He walked over to the man and chambered a round.

"You ever read the bible?" he asked. The man spat in his face in reply. Johnson wiped it off and continued with his monologue. "There's this passage that I've taken to the liking and I've got memorized," Johnson started. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish, and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with _great _vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know MY NAME IS THE LORD, WHEN I LAY MY FINGERS UPON THEE!" He then proceeded to shoot several rounds into the bandit's head, killing him instantly.

"Holy shit sarge, that was fucking intense!" Ramirez ran up to him. Johnson smirked, then reached around in the dead raider's pockets. He found a ring of keys, in the corner, he saw the children chained up to the wall in medieval style shackles.

"Alright, we're getting you out of here kiddies, sorry about the mess. Come on, let's go home," Erickson stated. Johnson undid each of the chains, and the children fell to the floor. They moaned and their faces were still red from the tears. The boys looked like they had been beaten, probably some part of a brutish initiation ritual or other.

"I wanna go home," a child moaned.

"Hey, Johnny Gorobets, it's gonna be okay, those guys ain't going to be back to do this again, let's go." Johnson reassured.

After a long evening's expedition both to and from, not to mention the battle, the sun was beginning to rise. The entire team was exhausted, and except from some minor cuts and bruises, no one was injured. The only exception to this was Ellie who had taken a bullet to the side of the wrist during the battle. She had been able to patch it up, and it was only a grazing wound so she had been fine. Much better than the SOB who had shot her any way. When the team reentered the village, they had been given a hero's welcome. The village prepared a feast to mark the occasion when Ashling, for the first time since after the bomb's fell, finally obtained her independence. Johnson ate what food he could, drank what he could. Non alcoholic drinks only though, Johnson despised the bottle, and realized that he needed to preserve his free-thinking for the long road ahead.

_And so it was,__ the Desert Crusader went forth from Camp Navarro. The wasteland was full of dangers and temptations, but the Crusader was undaunted by the vices. Honor, Duty, Courage, these traits guided this noble soul forth through his tests and triumphs. Unchanged by his encounters with the people of Ashling, the town would forever remember him. Ashling, with the help of the Gun Runners eventually would set up a formidable outpost. When the NCR was eventually founded, they discovered the town of Ashling to the North. At first, they tried by force to convince the town to submit to their rule. The NCR Army and her Rangers were ultimately unsuccessful against the professional marksman and soldiers found within the town. However, Ashling was willing to yield to diplomacy. After realizing the concept of democracy that NCR was experimenting with, the village elders decided fully to become one with the NCR. Although never given a state of their own, they became part of the __New Reno's__ state. While __New Reno__ itself would manage finances, Ashling regulated the military. This proved to be an ultimate combo, and the forces within Ashling would eventually be given a division itself within NCR's military. The red berets found in nearby military installations guiding the NCR forward as the last thing you never see.  
_

**Well that ends Part I, officially. How many parts are there? Well, that is for me to know, and you to find out. Eventually. For all of you loyal readers still reading, I appreciate the continued support, and would like to encourage you to review this chapter and the story in general. All feedback is appreciated. If you have any tips moving forward, or any praise for something in particular I did in part one, please speak up. It helps me as a writer to publish more of the stuff that you want. For anyone looking for ****a dik-dik, please continue looking. I know how hard they are to find these days. And yes, it is a real animal, google it. If you are looking to track the story's route thus far, Navarro can be found North of San Francisco along the coast. If you head east a ways, you'll eventually find the city of New Reno. In between the two, that is where you find Ashling, along a large crossroads. As always, beautiful people of fanfiction, remember not to lick any windows so I can keep you as a reader for a long, long time. Stay beautiful everybody. I hope this was as much of a joy to read as it was to write!**


	9. Chapter 9: Where are you Going

Chapter 9:

Where are you Going? Where have you Been?

_What has it been, two, three days? _Johnson asked himself. He had been following Route 60 east out of Ashling for a while now. He kept seeing rusted out signs for Sacramento, which was a good sign that he was at least headed the right direction and away from the coast. Johnson had been taught a few things from local hunters in Ashling before he had left, mainly the essentials on wasteland survival. He was taught what animals he should eat, what ones he shouldn't, and a few "household" remedies for minor ailments. Johnson was still iffy about a few things though. For instance, this "xander root" looked like a giant turnip. How exactly combining a turnip and a flower together in a fire to make some sort of magic dust that heals bullet wounds did seem like a load of crap. However, the geckos that were around here were good eating. Johnson had grown up in Ohio where the only reptiles around were either in A. a zoo, or B. the occasional snake. The geckos out here looked freaky, but they went down easy enough. Plus when cooked over a fire, Johnson found he could sustain himself for several meals. Ranger School had taught Johnson to conserve and treasure every morsel of food he could find, so what he didn't eat initially with the meal, he would smoke and allow it to essentially become Gecko Jerky. A great trail food. Water wasn't an issue at the moment since several gas stations still had an ample supply of water. The majority of it was in fact irradiated, but the few Rad Begone tablets he had found back in the raider head base could easily treat a gallon of water per tablet, at the same time, the course he had taken in desert survival back before the war had taught him also where he could find water in the desert. Cacti were obviously a classic, but failing that, there were several methods to finding water underground which could be a lifesaver in a pinch. Johnson longed to be home, Ashling had been a nice town, but there is no way in hell he was going to simply sit there on his laurels doing nothing. The town had idolized him, something he was definitely not used to. A great refreshment from the usual hippy bullshit he had been used to back home. What he missed most however, was his family.

_"Daddy,can I go outside and play now?" Jennifer asked with pleading eyes._

_ "Sweet pea, it's still raining, so no. I don't want you to get all muddy," Johnson denied. _

_ "But Dad! We'll be real careful! Honest!" Celeste chimed in._

_ "Hon, you don't even like the water," Johnson pointed out._

_ "Yes huh!" Typical child argument._

_ "Alright, fine. You can go out. But so help me, if you get so much as a drop of mud on you..." Johnson started._

_ "We won't! Thank you, thank you! We promise!" They both ran up and hugged him, then his two six year old daughters ran outside. Johnson watched for a second, then walked back inside. The Bengals were playing __and like usual, they were losing. Johnson got up as it cut to commercial. He walked to the door to let the dog out and saw the girls dancing in the street. He smirked. Kristen wouldn't be home for another hour, regardless, being at home was always __a relief. This little sleepy old town was his home, and he always felt secure and cozy in it. _

_ "Dad!" A voice shouted from upstairs._

_ "Yeah, what is it?" Eric asked in reply._

_ "I just killed Bin-Laden on Veteran Difficulty!" an excited cheer stated._

_ "About time! You know I beat Call of Duty Modern Warfare 8 a while ago!" He taunted jokingly. This Call of Duty Modern Warfare was "different" from the others. This time instead of playing with early 2000 graphics, you had later 2000 graphics. Oh, and the sounds were different. Johnson went to his fridge and grabbed a beer, he stroked the dog's head, then began to walk back to sit down and finish the game. That's when he heard the truck..._

Johnson snapped out of this waking nightmare. _Man, I'm starting to go a littttle crazy here..._ he thought to himself. He toyed with the thought of finding a volleyball and treating it as a friend. Again, his thoughts returned to Ashling. He prayed that the village would maintain its peaceful stature, that his instruction hadn't changed the common defense into an a mob's bloodlust. As he kept walking, he eventually saw something on the horizon. This was...different, compared to what he had seen before. As he began to move, he realized that it wasn't something on a hill, but rather, it was a massive building far off in the distance. It started as one building, then two, then three. The buildings began to sprout like wildfire. As the buildings slowly began to appear in his vision, Johnson realized that he had in fact, just found the Ex-City of Sacramento. The former capital of California. Johnson was marveled at how much of the city was still standing. Although many buildings were crumbling, and the weaker ones had died away, the tallest buildings still had a husk jotting at the sky. A testament to the endurability of man. All of science consisted of man surpassing challenges. Man can't catch food so he invented a spear, man couldn't carry heavy load, invented a wheel. No limitations to growth, no advancement in technology, no culture. Unfortunately, it worked the same way in reverse. Technology without the culture to support it led to annihilation.

"Hey mister!" A voice called in the distance. Johnson squinted to try to make out a figure. He saw nothing. "Come on buddy! You don't need be doing that!" It pleaded again. Johnson still couldn't see anything. The thing that was the most audible however, was the gunshot that then followed. There was then some crying. "Why? Oh God why are you doing this?" Johnson cursed as he realized what he was getting himself into. He had ground to make up, this would be a quickie, just a stop, shoot a bad guy, then haul ass sort of thing. He pulled out his Marksman Carbine and began to run forward at a quick pace. His boots making a steady thud against the crumbling pavement. As he got closer, he heard more pleading and another gun shot. This time however, he heard laughing. Several racial slurs were dropped in edition, of which, made Johnson reminisce of a time of tolerance. Nuclear weapons have a tendency to bring back racism.

* * *

"Alright, now I'm gonna want you to dance, alright Uncle Tom?" Raul sneered.

"C'mon mistah! Have a little mercy! My family was starvin'!" Ray continued to plead.

"Just because some mud people got hungry don't mean they can take our food. I mean, it all starts with ya'll thinking your entitled to it. And then..." Raul's voice trailed off.

"Hey friend, that's hardly a way to treat a fellow American," a voice suddenly called to him. Raul looked up, angered. Who in his dumbass mind dares to challenge Los Cabrones?

"Alright then, let me just see how you are doing bro," Raul began to turn around to see the attacker.

"Uh uh uh, now now, stay facing forward for me, especially if you want to keep your brains inside your head." Raul rolled his eyes.

"Little Ricky, ice this fool already." Raul ordered. Ricky replied with a "Yes boss", then went out of Raul's vision with a knife. There was silence, and a few seconds later, a body came flying past him. It landed with a thud beside him, the knife in his chest. "Alright, now seriously, knock that off, henchman are hard to come by these days," Raul added, annoyed.

"Here's what I want you to do. I want you to drop your dinky little revolver on the ground, give the man any food, water, or meds you have on you, then you're going to walk away, okay?" the voice said slowly.

"No, not okay! Peek-a-boo motherfucker!" Raul yelled as he turned, revolver in hand. The moment he began to spin, a round slapped into his thigh. As he brought up his pistol to fire at the target he still had yet to see, a shot hit his weapon, and it exploded in his hand. This explosion mangled several fingers badly, and a battered Raul swore loudly. The voice, still completely lacking of emotion made a threat once again. "Get out of here before I finish you off, piece of human trash." Raul swore and began to limp away quickly.

"When I get the boys in here, you're gonna be sorry! Hope you don't have to sleep at night!" He then turned and proceeded to haul ass as fast as his one good leg would take him. Never having gotten a good look at his attacker.

* * *

"Lord almighty! Thank you so much!" the former captive said to Johnson. Johnson took out his combat knife and cut the rope binding the man's arms and legs. "Whatcho name?"

"Just call me Johnson, now if you don't mind, I'll best be heading out..." Johnson stated as he began to walk away. _Oh no, I am NOT getting bottled down again. Come on boy, let's get rolling. _

"Come on now Mistah Johnson, you look exhausted. Why don't you just let my family and me take care of ya for the night? It's getting dark and you's goin need a place to crash any how." Johnson sighed. He did have a point. He hadn't slept since leaving Ashling. The country side felt completely wrong, the entire time he walked the roads, he expected a bullet or a creature to hit him in the back. He could never be at ease.

"Fine, I guess I can afford a single night. What is your name?" Johnson inquired.

"They call me Old Man George, I live at yonder market," George pointed at a small store nearby. It was nothing more than a gas station convenience store at best. Johnson however, was not satisfied by the surroundings. It was still vulnerable in its position. Several wide open windows, an easy-access door. This room needed to be fortified so it could survive a small assault-

"Hi there youngster, I hear you scared off the goons from my Georgie today!" An elderly woman said behind him. Johnson turned fast, simply out of reflex. He didn't expect some sort of old lady hit squad. Although, he imagined that would be fairly intense.

"Woah now, any faster and you'll drill a whole in the floor. M'name's Margaret. Welcome to our little abode," Margaret stated. Johnson gave an appreciative nod, he then resumed eyeing the country side. Making sure everything was at least docile for the time being. "So...You hungry?" Margaret asked suddenly. Johnson told her that he could eat, in truth, he was fairly ravenous from the trip. However, self-discipline had led him to rationing his food, a necessary precaution. Margaret walked into the back of the store, and called him in. There was a small table with four chairs and an old oven. On the oven, she was heating a couple cans of Pork and Beans since sixty year old Pork was delicious. As they ate, Johnson simply inhaled his servings, then got seconds, and thirds.

"So, Mister Johnson, you don't look like you belong in Sac-Town, where you from?" Old Man George asked.

"Well that depends, what exactly are you looking for?" Johnson replied.

"Where's ya home? Where you from?" he inquired. Johnson sighed as his memories flooded back to him.

"I grew up and lived in Cincinnati, a town far from here. I had a wife and children there. Then...some serious bad juju happened, and now I'm here." Johnson stated, he shook his head towards the end of the statement. No matter who asks, he never wanted to recall anything of that day in October. The day the world died.

"Cincinnati? I ain't heard of no such place," Margaret stated. Johnson realized that despite their old age, it was likely that they were children before the war.

"It's back East," Johnson affirmed. Flashes of life appeared before his eyes. Pictures of a better time, a better place. Snapshots into what normal life was then, compared to the destructive nature of life today.

"If it's in the East, how in the name of the Virgin Mary did you get here?" George asked. Johnson once again sighed deeply, and felt the weight of the world on his chest.

"It's a long story..." he started to say. George motioned him to go on. "Long ago, before the bombs fell, I was a soldier. Not a mercenary, not a raider, but a soldier. Before this land you see it today, a great nation known as the United States of America stood proud. I was one of those sworn to defend her. I was sent to another mighty government known as China in a land far off across the sea. There, we waged war. I did things I am not proud of, but long story short, I was knocked unconscious. By the time I came to, I was in Navarro, fifty something years later. Now, I'm just a wanderer headed home."

"You sound like a man with a rough life," George pointed out. Johnson nodded. George then added, "I do wish you luck, really, I do. Have you seen your family lately?"

"I don't want to talk about them," Johnson said bluntly. _Honk honk! _The sound of the truck's horn firmly ingrained in Johnson's mind. A fiber of his very being. A testament to one of many screw ups that encompassed his life. It was George's turn to sigh.

"We all have one of those sonny. Trust me. Well, we best be getting some shut eye, got a long day ahead of us," George stated. Johnson nodded, and he looked over to see the "beds" that were arranged. In truth, they were nothing more than merely pelts that lie upon the ground. However, upon laying down, Johnson could forget his worries, and felt as though they were the very hands of God. He took one final look around as George shut the door and bolted into place. He then nodded off to sleep, the only thing he managed to take off were his boots which sat next to him.

_Where the hell am I? Johnson asked. He was in a deep forest. The trees towering over him like sky scrapers. Johnson had nothing in his hands but a knife. He looked all around, but all he saw were trees. The sun was beginning to set as the Earth entered its twilight. He grasped his knife firmly and began to walk around. He crouched low to the ground like a predator, hoping to find some tracks or any form of trail. He saw none, and he decided to start moving forward. Various animal noises could be heard in the forest, but Johnson was not unnerved. With knife in hand, Johnson was more than confident that any of Dr. Doolittle's friends who dared to make a move would be dealt with. He was walking, when he heard a branch snap. He quickly did a 180, but saw nothing but shadows, scampering away and laughing. Johnson grunted and scanned his surroundings. The forest grew dark, and as darkness approached, the trees became even more foreboding._

_ "I wanna go home," a small boy whispered. Johnson once again looked around, this time slowly spinning in a full circle. As he did, a small shadow leapt at him, it had the shape of a hound, but was composed of nothing more than dark mist. Johnson caught the strange beast. It's eyes a glowing red as it snapped at him, Johnson pulled his knife and thrust it into the creature's side, it yelped as Johnson tossed it aside and it vanished. _

_ "Eric! Good to see you! How is kicking ass for Uncle Sam going?" a familiar voice asked._

_ "Really really shitty, this planet sucks," Johnson nonchalantly stated. The voice was familiar, but far off. The land of which, Johnson could not place. The voice dissipated once again into thin air. Johnson started walking once more, and another one of the hounds leapt at him. This one growled fierce, its two heads now yielding a pair of glowing orange eyes on each of them. Johnson barreled out of the way like an expert dodgeball player, and as it hit the ground, Johnson's foot hit its face. It wheeled back, and Johnson was already on top of it, straddling it like a baby horse. He plunged the knife into the back of one's head, then the other. He was disappointed when suddenly his mount disappeared like ash on the wind. As it died, a whisper sounded off again in the wind. This one appearing more static than the others. "May God help all of us."_

_ Johnson was no longer walking by this point. He was running in a full sprint. He made like a bat out of hell, just hoping to find some way out of the forest. Dark shadows raced behind him, voices combining in multiple whispers, reminding him of this or that. Johnson wanted to hear none of it, and was relieved when he found a cabin in the middle of the forest. He thought, "wow, this doesn't seem shady at all!" as he walked up to it and barged into the door. A man lie on the floor, blood covering everything. There was blood pouring out the sink which was still left on. It covered the floor in a sticky molasses way. Johnson lifted his feet as the blood clung to him. A double barrel was at the end of this room, he merely had to touch it... Suddenly, as he nearly grabbed it, he fell. Landing face first in the filth. He couldn't lift his head more than a few inches, stuck like a dinosaur in a tar pit. He pushed his hard farther into it, and to his surprise, he saw something...Something right in front of him._

_ A pair of eyes looking right into him, brow furrowed upon its skull, eyes biting into him. It was mere centimeter's from Johnson's own head. There was no mouth, nor nose. Simply a face with eyes and a brow. An extremely PO'd face with eyes and a brow at that. Johnson pulled away suddenly as __the thing continued to stare. He was again surprised when he broke free of the sap, scrambling to his feet, he began to sprint away from the house. As he opened the door, a man in a dark suit was waiting for him. He wore a classic 1930's gangster attire, complete with black fedora and dark shades. Johnson could see nothing into them._

_ "Ah yes, Eric Johnson, you could say I've been...waiting for you," the man said with a smirk. He produced a corn pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Johnson looked at him in confusion. The shades tinted so dark that Johnson could make out nothing. He only saw his own reflection in the glasses._

_ "You have me at a disadvantage here, and you are?" Johnson asked. The man smiled again. _

_ "Who I am is unimportant. I have met many before, many like you. Even a few you delivered to me. Or perhaps, many who delivered you. That is irrelevant. Nevertheless, I am overjoyed we have finally met."_

_ "I wish I could say the same, but frankly I do not know you."_

_ "Oh, but I know you. And I know Davidson. And Bradley. And Jefferson. And Rodriguez. And, well, should I continue?" he stated. Johnson was angered and confused, an unusual combination._

_ "How the hell do you know those men? What do you want from me?"_

_ "Now now, there is no need for this, I simply must—Oh look at the time. I guess it really isn't your appointment. I will be seeing you later. How later exactly? Well, that is at your discretion." The man began to disappear as Johnson lunged for him. He wanted answers dammit! Where the hell did this guy go? The trees began to ignite. Johnson recoiled as one landed right besides him. He took off in a dead sprint as wave after wave of timber collapsed behind him. Suddenly, one of those blasted shadow hounds pounced him from the darkness. It knocked him over, right as a large pine tree fell and landed on him. The heat was searing, and Johnson could feel his own blood boiling. He yelled as he felt the burning._

He woke up suddenly in a cold sweat. Dawn's first light was peeking over the horizon. Whatever strange realm he had just been transferred into was now gone, and he had returned to this sorry planet once again. The elderly couple looked at him startled. They had been woken suddenly by the screams of a mad man. Johnson thanked them for their generosity and put on his boots. He tied them carefully, then exited the gas station and out into the still cool air of the high way. In front of him, Sacramento stood menacingly. Johnson chose caution over conquest, and he took a bypass. There were countless numbers of cars parked in their old funeral positions. They had been trying to flee the cities as the bombs hit. Unfortunately, many of these cars had run out of gas, and stopped the cars behind him. This road was a burial ground for many. He followed this disaster zone until it linked back up with Route 60 once again. He continued walking, pausing on occasion to get a fair judge of his surroundings. The sun was low as it barely started to look upon her battered Earth. The skies turning a greenish orange as early morning met radiation. As he was walking, another one of those ignorant Geckos made a move for him, Johnson easily finished him off with a pistol round, stopping only to skin the animal's body. He quickly made a fire and cured the majority of the meat, saving it for later necesities. Gecko jerky was a delicious treat to a starving traveler.

As he nibbled on a bite, he saw two thing: one, a man in what appeared to be a large brown duster, and two, a large high way sign. On the sign it read "Reno, 120 miles."

**Thanks for reading beauties. As usual, I hope you appreciated the chapter. I was going to originally have Johnson enter Sac-town/Sacramento, but I decided against it. Too many raiders there, and honestly, not that many interesting landmarks. No offense to any one living there. Reno, however, should be quite the interesting city for our head honcho. Was this the last we'll see of Raul? Who knows? Is this the first time we've seen Raul? Well that would be your call :). Try to decipher the dream sequence. There is a lot of feedback for you if you've paid attention to ****the story, a lot of outside references ****even the title! There is even a dose of**** foreshadowing to the near future. What exactly is being foreshadowed? Well if I told you, I'd kind of be defeating the purpose of a story, wouldn't I? Now then, stay classy people, and show your support with a review or favorite! On the last Chapter, we nearly broke 100 unique views in one day. We were at freaking 99! Come on, let's spread the love like a good ol' commune here. Should we break the daunted 100, there will be a special treat in store for you. Now then, have a wonderful evening and a classy tomorrow!**


	10. Chapter 10: The High Roller

Chapter 10:

The High Roller

**Sorry it took so long to update folks. ****To clarify from the previous chapter, the Raul you met wasn't the same Raul you had seen in New Vegas. Just wanted to clarify that to any one who may have been freaking out of a beloved sarcastic ghoul going bad. Remember, Raul was probably still in Mexico at this point, not Sacramento.**** I've been busy the past few days. I wanted to announce I have a current competition going on. For all of you beautiful people who want to try, feel free to submit a character spreadsheet either through PM or review, etc to me. We're looking for a new companion. ****If you are interested in contributing one, I'll need to know their name, background, specialties, equipment, skill set, and other miscellaneous knowledge. If I feel a character is too overpowered or too mary-sueish, then that character will be shot down. Any way, I shouldn't be all to busy the next few days, so expect my schedule of a chapter every two or three days to resume. Anywho, carry on!**

A gunshot rang out in the darkness. Johnson hadn't made nearly the time he had wanted to, but at last he was finally nearing what he had hoped was Reno. It was a lot smaller than he thought the former capitol of Nevada should have been, but nevertheless, he was still eagerly anticipating any people that might be inside. It had taken four days to get from Sacramento to here, and the sky was dark with the moon nowhere to be found. The wastes were beset by blackness which encompassed the desert sands like a tarp. Ahead of him, street lights beckoned as a beacon of hope. There was a crossroads, the black pavement relatively dirt free compared to the rest of the roads that Johnson had traveled. He walked towards it, but saw dark figures sulking in and out of some objects he could not identify from this distance. Deciding that caution was always preferable to a charge, Johnson pulled out his rifle, and crouched to minimize chances of detection. He steered clear of the open road, deciding that the lights would easily indicate where he was, and his boots on the pavement would broadcast his presence. He slowly moved forward.

Yelling could be heard, and Johnson finally realized where he was and what these objects were. He was in a graveyard, and the strange objects were tombstones. God, there were a lot of them at that. Johnson took cover behind an unmarked tombstone, and peered over to see if he could get a good view of the figures. There were approximately twenty or so people. Four were hunched over, two children and two adults. The rest were wearing dark clothing and what appeared to be some form of hat. Johnson chose not to pay attention to that detail, but rather the weapons that were in their hands. One held a revolver, from the looks of it, it was a large Smith and Wesson. They were murmuring something about a priest or something of that nature. Johnson did hear a definite word, however.

"FUCK YOU!" the man on the ground yelled and began to stand. His outburst was then retorted with a different outburst, this one being from the revolver. It spat lead into the skull of the man who slumped over and disappeared. The revolver then turned to the woman who was frantic, as the person she had once sat next to had been blown away. There was more speaking. This time, it was the gunman who spoke loudly. He waved the pistol back and forth between the woman and the smaller figures. This triggered more speaking from the woman which was far from calm. Johnson wanted to do something, his conscientious urged him forward. However, the discipline in Johnson had him remain there. He realized that with the large number of people he would quickly be overwhelmed, and that his mission was far more important than what was happening here. He maintained his position, and still remained listening. Once again, however, he heard another loud bang as the weapon fired off a second time, then a third time. He then began to yell again. Johnson, with an unknown urge, and an animalistic fury poked his head above the tombstone one more time. This time however, he pulled his rifle up as well. He tapped the scope, and night optics took hold, diminishing the darkness with a green glow. Johnson could now see how many exactly there were, and although he was almost certain that he'd get overrun if he got into a gun fight, he sighted the first guy and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Johnny's revolver flew as the first bullet hit the man in the arm, the second pierced the leg, and the final one decapitated him. The others began to look around for what the hell just happened. The devil let loose another burst from the darkness. This one was in quicker succession, a burst of four rounds easily cut the Ronny down. His blood splattered on Guy who was unfortunate enough to stand behind him.

"What in the hell?" Ramos began to state as he was then cut down as well. Salvador finally was able to home in on the rounds, a dark shadow clung to some tombstones in the far side of the cemetery. Although he himself couldn't be directly seen, the muzzle flashes illuminated the foreboding skies.

"Dios mio!" Salvador called out. He dove into a nearby shallow grave as rounds tore into where he once stood.

"I'M GETTING THE HELL OUTTA HERE!" one of the other lackeys shouted as he turned to run. The final five followed him. The shots were now ringing out in single succession. Those who had fled were now being cut down methodically. From the front of the group to the rear, each began to meet a bullet to the back of the head. When the shooter got to Rodriguez, he no longer fired and Rodriguez quickly disappeared toward the city. Salvador was baffled. He hadn't seen such disciplined and accurate shooting in quite a while. Salvador wanted to poke his head up, but he knew what would happen when he did. Instead, he simply lie there in the ditch, unmoving.

* * *

Johnson scanned the surroundings, looking to assess the area and see if any of the scum were still around. They had unfortunately all scattered like dust in the wind. He saw a single figure still kneeling next to the large grave. It was surrounded by about five or six dead bodies of various size and appearance. Johnson emerged from cover, but still did not stand completely up. He slowly crouch walked in that direction, avoiding the light of the streets and taking care to make sure that he avoided making more noise than what was completely necessary. He skulked toward the point of interest, and shortly before getting there, he took cover once again behind a tombstone. He scanned the terrain with his scope, akin to that of a hyena about to approach a lion's abandoned kill. He got up to the mass of bodies and he saw a young girl. She couldn't have been older than eight or nine. She had her young face covered in blood, but she was still breathing. Johnson was relieved that she wasn't the one who had been hit. Johnson looked around her, and saw that her mother, father, and older sister all were dead. Unlike the parents, the sister was...different. She lacked any sign of bodily damage on her. Johnson rolled the cadaver over onto her back, and realized what it was. She hadn't been hit in front, rather the back of the head. The entire skull cavity had oozed out once Johnson had rolled her over. He realized that the .357 that the suit man had wielded couldn't cause that amount of damage. He then made the realization that none of the other corpses had fire arms on them. Just a combination of switch blades, ice picks, and a few lead pipes. Johnson sat in horror as her fate had slowly come to fruition in his mind. Fancy pants hadn't shot her, but as she turned to flee, in the heat of the moment Johnson must of sighted her as a fleeing combatant and put her down.

_I am trained to prevent this damn it! Collateral damage is NEVER okay. It is unavoidable, but __this is a case where it SHOULDN'T have happened. I need only time my shots...keep getting the blood from getting to his head. I'm a Ranger for pete's sake! This is the second time this has happened. _

Johnson's thought was interrupted by a voice.

"Such precision does not come naturally around here. And that rifle, who are you?" a voice asked. Johnson spun around, bringing his weapon to bear. "A bellum omnium in omnes I see. Nothing wrong with that, and no one is judging here."

"Who exactly are you?" Johnson asked the strange man who climbed out of the ditch. He was not dressed in the fancy attire of the others. Instead, he wore what appeared to be simple clothing. The clothing was extremely dark, but the fabric did not seem to be what Johnson would expect in post apocalyptic America. It was still for the large part, largely cotton and polymers. The texture appeared to be that of pre-war under armor, or a track suit. Despite the texture, it yielded many pockets, the majority of which were filled with who knows what.

"Hmm. I suppose you may call me...Edward. Edward Jenner at your service," the man stated. He held out his hand. Johnson shook his head.

"Okay, so who the hell are you really, and who the hell are these goons?" Johnson bore into him with eyes of menace.

"You do not intimidate me mister. Nevertheless, I will answer your questions. I am really Edward Jenner, and I represent a group known as...the Salvatores. The men you encountered were the Castrucci, we've been meaning to deal with them for a while. I was implanted as a way to obtain information for the eventual strike," Jenner stated, he pulled a pair of shades from his pocket and put them on. His eyes were completely gone, lost within the dark glass of his sunglasses. Odd considering that it was probably nearing midnight, and the few lights were illuminating the streets. Johnson turned to look at the girl who was blindfolded and still shaking. Her arms and legs were both bound and she could not move either of them. Johnson pulled off the blindfold, and took out his knife. Her eyes went wide as he approached her with it. Instead of cutting her, she was surprised when he instead cut the rope that clung so tightly to her skin.

"Hi there, my name is Eric and I-" Johnson started. The girl started to cry. "just...rescued...you..." Johnson slowly finished. The girl kept looking at what Johnson had assumed was her father, then her mother. Finally her sister. "Listen, I'm a part of the army, I'm here to help you. What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" Johnson asked kindly. She looked at him, then looked away. She shook her head and said nothing. Johnson shrugged and let out a quiet exasperated sigh.

"You seem to have a very unique set of skills likely acquired during a long career." Jenner once again added, nodding slightly at Johnson. Jenner then beckoned to him. "Perhaps you can be of use after all."

"I'm not some sort of lackey, now if you don't mind..." Johnson stated as he began to leave.

"Ah yes, but you do want to help me defeat those who killed her parents don't you? Besides, if you scratch my back, maybe I can scratch yours in the future."

"Fine, but the moment this is over, I'm leaving. I can't afford to stay bogged down for a while. I need to keep heading East. I have a job to do."

"Courier?"

"No. Warrior."

"I see." Jenner began to leave, and Johnson followed in pursuit. As they walked, they came upon a strange sight. A large sign faced them: RENO: THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD." The landscape was pocket marked with scorches from atomic weapons, but for the most part, the town was still largely intact. Oddly enough also, the place had power. That was not something that Johnson had been prepared for. After all, when America is disintegrated into tiny ash, there isn't much room for electricity. Various neon lights illuminated various casinos and bars. People freely sulked in the streets. The entire time while within them, Johnson felt as though every movement he made was being carefully assessed and calculated. Needless to say, his hand was near his holster the entire time. As they were walking down the main street, they approached an intact casino. While not as large or as glamorous as the Las Vegas casinos that likely inspired it, it was still a strange sight within the new America. "Welcome to my little corner of paradise, the den of sin known only as Mictlan. I am but a humble servant, a loyal compatriot to my masters, we have something we hope you may be able to help us with."

_Here we go again..._ Johnson thought. God knows how long it was going to take to make it to the East Coast. Especially at this pace. "I really should just be..."Johnson started.

"Nonsense! Come! Have a drink! Sleep in a room, relax friend." Jenner nudged him. Johnson was thrown off by this. Such speakings seemed to be illuminated by the devil, the scenery was appropriate with various forms of light-bulbed fire. Some strippers flowed around poles, and there was a bartender with a cabinet made of various forms of liquor. The cabinet itself was made of broken bottles of booze, and inside it housed what else but more booze? Johnson yawned, he realized that the least he could do would bunk down here. However, his gut kept gnawing at him, it reminded him to avoid the bottle. He had to treat this as though it was simply one extremely large and extensive combat operation in an unknown territory. There were 99 different ways for Johnson to get killed out there, but he'd be damned if a bitch would be one. Johnson studied the new environment, then once again looked to Jenner.

"Alright, fine, I'll stay the night. Where is my room?" He asked. Jenner smirked and shook his head.

"Now now, where are your manners? You need to check in at the front desk like any good old customer, but this one will be courtesy of the house."

"Don't bullshit me, the saying the house always collects exists for a reason."

"All will be explained in due time, child, in due time. Go get your beauty sleep." Jenner nodded at the front desk then walked away. Johnson was left with nothing more than his thoughts, a rifle, and a sidearm. As Jenner turned to walk, he nudged into Johnson and dropped a note. The note gracefully fell to the floor and lie there, expecting Johnson to pick it up. He did such, and uncrumpled it. On the front, it stated, "VIP: Luxury Suite, three nights -B" On the back, it said in hastily scribbled writing_ Your room, eight o'clock. _Johnson pondered over whom B was, and what was to happen at eight. He showed the front of the note to the man working the desk. The man was put off by a stranger clad in armor and who wielded enough weaponry to tackle the guards of the building. He gave Johnson the key any way, then gestured toward the staircase on his right.

"Go up three floors, the room is the first door on the right," again the man resumed his uninterested pose. Johnson gave a quick nod, then hurried up the stairs. When he reached the room, he fumbled with the key for a second trying to get it in the lock. His hand was trembling. Using his other hand, he steadied himself and put the key in the lock and opened the door. He pushed the door open, and was greeted with what someone might expect from a more luxurious pre-war hotel room. A king sized bed sat in the middle of the room. There was a television sitting on the dresser towards the foot of the bed. Oddly enough, Johnson doubted that he would be able to find any good TV stations. To the left of the dresser, close to Johnson there was a mini-fridge. This would no doubt be stocked with overpriced hors d'oeuvres. To the right, there was a bathroom, and Johnson could only imagine what horrors could fester with a fifty year head start. Walked into the room and studied his surroundings very carefully. If there was a trap, or a trick, he was going to find it now, and not two in the morning when a grenade goes off for seemingly no reason. He saw nothing in the room, nor hidden anywhere that would throw him off. Satisfied, he slung his rifle against the wall. He removed the magazine, put the rifle on safety, and left it there. He was _not _going to sleep in that bed. If someone were to come in the room, the first place they would check would likely be the bed. Instead, Johnson decided that he would occupy the bathtub. He grabbed a pillow and blanket and fashioned a rudimentary nest inside of the tub. He then took some extra pillows and fluffed them up. He stuffed them into the bed, making sure to carefully hide them underneath the comforter. Johnson hoped that whoever would enter the room would be delayed enough by this deception, that he could then get the jump on the attacker and take him down instead. He could then get the hell out of dodge, and continue on his merry way. Johnson put his side arm on safe, and put it carefully behind the toilet. The toilet was within arms distance of the tub, and if someone were to come in, the weapon would be concealed, but still close enough to be dependable in a do or die situation.

Johnson reminded himself that he was going to wake up at 7:30 in the morning to get ready for whatever Gook is going to come into his room. There were no clocks left in this world, but being able to wake up before a specific time is a natural ability for any one who has had to take such significant special forces training. He wondered what Jenner guy had to offer, and what the hell was going on in this town. Who were the people who were shot in the cemetery? Who were the shooters? Why the hell did he care? Johnson hoped that all of these questions would be answered as he drifted to sleep.

The night passed with little activity. Johnson had half expected to be plagued by a nightmare, or a memory as he had so many other times during this personal hell. Secretly, he desired a nightmare or a dream, no matter how terrifying or remorseful. Even the worst of dreams still reminded Johnson of a time before the war, a time before man killed man for the sake of a gallon of gas. Johnson thought of home, and was burdened by the thought that he may never see his family again. He knew that the odds of anything surviving such devastation was slim, at best. Nuclear fire had brought out the worst in humanity. If the bombs, the radiation, or the plague didn't kill you, it was the abominations that surrounded the country side now that did. The dehydration as the water that had once been taken for granted and had scattered throughout the world had either dried up, or become so irradiated that you internally cooked every time you drank it. Food that, if it hadn't already spoiled, was also so incredibly dried up and irradiated that it would pain you to simply eat it. As Johnson's other senses began to wake up as well, he slowly shifted around in his bath tub fortress. Getting a feel for his limbs once again, he reached for his weapon and made sure to load it. He kept it ready as he peered around the corner into the rest of the room. It was still empty. Johnson was honestly a bit disappointed. He had expected at least something shifty to have happened during the night. Perhaps it was the lack of shady activity that was the thing that actually made him nervous. Johnson walked to where he had left his rifle, and found it exactly where he left it. He grabbed it as well and loaded it, but slung it over his back. He then turned and pulled up one of the chairs that had been placed in the room. He faced it towards the door, and sat down. He was now playing the waiting game. Whatever was about to throw down might as well go now.

As he waited, eventually, there was a knock. Johnson, however had already unlocked the door and told whoever was on the other side to come in. The door opened a with a creak and Jenner entered the room and sat on the bed.

"Alright, it's time I asked you. Was the Only Easy Day Yesterday? Or did you Lead the Way?"

"I always Lead the Way," Johnson stated.

"Excellent. Good to hear from you Staff Sergeant." Jenner stated. Johnson smiled. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

**Beautiful people, I am dreadfully sorry that this chapter took so long. It's been over a week and I greatly apologize for the delay. Unfortunately, life briefly caught up to me so I had to pretend that I have a life. I should be able to resume my standard schedule of chapter postings immediately. You can expect another chapter either tomorrow night or Sunday. Again, there were quite a few references in this chapter like there are in all of my chapters. If you can find all the ones that I have sprinkled around, then bravo for you. Please remember the character creation challenge I stated in the beginning. Format should essentially be something like:**

**Name:**

**Gender:  
S.P.E.C.I.A.L skills: (Don't give me numerical values, just a basic summary.)**

**Skills/Abilities:**

**Bio:**

**Welcome to the crime infested lair of sleaze known as New Reno beautiful people. There are many predators roaming these waters if you don't play your cards right. The beautiful Golgatha outside is able to accommodate many people every year. For those of you who played the pre-Bethesda Fallouts, I'm sure you'll recognize many of the familiar names and locations that are bound to appear. For those of you who joined on during Fallout 3 or New Vegas such as myself, I will be sure to give enough background and explanation so you don't just sit their thinking "wut dafuq?'" As always, reviews, favorites, etc are greatly appreciated. I will see all of you beautiful people later. Don't lick any play sets, and peace out home-slices.**


	11. Chapter 11: Who Dares Wins

Chapter 11:

Who Dares Wins

The common ground was quickly established between Jenner and Johnson. Jenner enlightened him to the current situation of New Reno, and what the Enclave would be planning to do in the future.

"So, how did you hear word that I was headed this way?" Johnson asked.

"Radio, radio communication was recently restored with Navarro and some bases farther east."

"How far east?" Johnson inquired hopefully.

"Our base of operations near Chicago. They got some working Vertibird models as well, and have done exceptionally well in combating the local threats. We have a large science division there as well. They are currently working on Eyebot-style robots designed to spread our influence without the risk of human life."

"Good, that is actually the best news I've heard so far," Johnson replied, "now, can you currently describe the situation here for me?"

"We were actually supposed to expect two operatives. Both of you were headed for the East. The other used to be SEAL, name was Murphy, Marcus. You hear of him before?" Johnson shook his head.

"No, I was Army, we have very little contact with the SEALs, they are a whole other badass cup of tea. I never met any operatives, and I imagined that if I had, I would never have known they were SEALs."

"Nah well. Any way, back to the current objective. Right now, you're standing in a casino in the middle of New Reno, or Reno, Nevada as you know it. This city is actually beset right now by five criminal organizations. Well, four if you don't want to include this organization since it's a front for the Enclave. You have the Bishops, the Mordinos, the Yakuza, and the Collective. The Bishops are a classic example of 1940 era mobs. They got the suits and machine guns to boot. The Mordinos are what you may classify as a gang. They consist largely of hispanic males, and are large suppliers of narcotics and alcohol. They are well funded from this, and are actually pretty well off in defense. Even though they are at the top of our "shit list" we can't afford to take them out yet, they are simply too strong. After this, you got the Yakuza. Although they may sound scary, the Yakuza are a complete husk of their pre-war selves. Think of them as small asian kids running around with sticks. As for the Collective, they have are made primarily of Eastern European Union workers, who before the war had moved to Reno. They specialize in racketeering, larceny, and arson. They are not below kidnapping and/or murdering someone simply to make a point. These are our current targets, and they were the ones you had seen outside. I was implanted with them to try to gain some intelligence, and I had _just _gotten the intel I needed before you started shooting. With yours and a few others assistance, we can launch a strike against them whenever we are ready."

Johnson sat their listening to all with keen attention to detail. He made sure that he mentally absorbed every single word,and realized quickly that he was likely getting himself into another combat operation. Joy.

"Lastly, you can't really call them a crime family since they are so incredibly weak. They are the Salvatores. They are trying extremely hard to build relations with us, and unlike the other crime families here, all they have is a bar. Maybe in the future we will be able to arm them and actually make them useful to us. In the meantime, they are exceptional cannon fodder."

"So, where do I come in?" Johnson asked. He was eager to get this started, then continue on with his journey. He had a long way to go until he got home. It had been nearly two and a half weeks of almost constant walking, and he was only as far as western Nevada. He desperately wished that at least he could have word of how things were going over there in the capitol, but likely, he would not hear how things were until he himself was there. This was assuming he navigated past a world of hurt that was once the United States of America.

"Simple. You were a Ranger, so we're going to use you to the best of your abilities. You get to blow shit up. Lieutenant Meehan is going to be in charge of the strike team that will cripple the Collective once and for all. Due to resource rationing, you're about as well equipped as the others are already. Meehan is the only one who will be in power armor, but even that is powered by old Microfusion cells. You'll be operating in a four man fire team, you've already got a rifle, so we'll see to it so your weapon is maintained, and you'll get some more ammunition for it. You have Johanes who will be armed with a semi-automatic combat shotgun. He'll be the lead. I'll be behind him with a sub machine gun, and you'll be pulling the rear."

"What is our objective?"

"First and forthmost is to eliminate Alexei Vasily as a threat to our organization. Secondly, you're going to plant charges on the casino and level it to the ground. Bullets, explosions, good times."

"Yeah, fun for the whole family. I have a large feeling there is a "but" coming on though."

"But, we don't have all the intel we need to make our move. We have our moles already imbedded within the Collective, so we're just going to have you relax for another day or so. Two days from now, we should have the guard routine, so we should in theory be able to move by then. I'd take this time to make sure you're well fed, relaxed, and rested. Maybe even get to know the team you're going to be working with."

"Alright, I may do that. I assume my quarters are here?" Johnson asked.

"Yeah, course they are. Good day." Jenner turned and left the room. Johnson decided that the first thing he was going to do was to meet the other members of his team. Jenner had told him as he left that they would likely be found down in the bar, so Johnson assumed that they were nothing more than mercs and guns for hire.

Johnson then turned and closed the door behind him, grabbing only his side arm and carefully hiding it underneath his underarmor and out of sight of others. He didn't need to start a panic for no reason. If he was going to start a panic, he might as well wait until there is good purpose for it. The casino itself was large, and lavish with an overemphasis on material wealth and first world vices. A den of sin and the exploitation of the poor. Such places were havens for crime, so Johnson was relieved that he still carried his trusty hand gun with him. If any one tried pickpocketing him, and they would receive nothing more than a single bullet. Johnson took a seat at a table, and began people-watching. He saw people of all shapes and sizes. Little people, tall people, big people, little people, light people, dark people, skinny people, round people. All wearing different forms of clothing. The lucky ones were still wearing good forms of clothing that had existed before the war. Mainly clothing that had been designed to last, regardless of the situation but which still retained some good old world class. On the other hand, you had some scavengers who wore clothing that was entirely made from multiple cloths, hastily sewn together likely on scavenged needles as well. A few people stood out from the rest of the crowd. There was a single guy at the bar, he was doing nothing but drinking water, and watching people. The lady next to him appeared to be trying to chat him up, but he said nothing. His hair was not washed, and mottled. Whether by sweat, blood, or some other fluids, this was irrelevant. Johnson decided that this man was an anomaly, and stood up to go see him.

"Hey, you're not like the others here, what's your deal?" Johnson asked, he decided to be blunt, and just go for the gold.

"Man Sarge, you _do _look like shit. I have to say," the man replied.

"Wait, what was that?" Johnson asked to him.

"I know, I know, it's not the same when I'm drinking water. I almost didn't recognize you either, but fortunately, you've always stuck out like a sore thumb."

"You have me at a loss here."

"Hmm. Perhaps this will jot your memory?" the man reached down to his boots, and quickly pulled up his pants leg. As he pulled it up, a strong metal cast revealed itself. It was slightly blue, but still a strong metal.

"You've got to be shitting me..." Johnson stated.

"I know, I know, I said it was only gonna need some stitches, but when I saw it, I just _had _to have it."

"Davidson, you dumb bastard, even the end of the world can't get rid of you!" Johnson shouted. Never, in a million years had he expected to meet one of his former squadmates here, in post apocalyptic Reno, Nevada.

"I'll say! What the hell does God have to do to finally take you out Sergeant?"

"He sure has tried, but I'm making him sweat for it. Nice leg."

"Thanks, its Saturnite shit. Real space-age stuff. It is ultra light in comparison to bone and flesh, but it is twice as strong as even the most dense bone."

"Ah, so even after the end of the world, the American Government owns your ass."

"Till death do us part."

"So, you're that knucklehead tagging along with me on this mission? I never heard them mention your name before."

"Yeah, call it an alias. You see, that "Jenner" guy isn't really Enclave. Only a few of the people here are actually Enclave. Most of them are just independents who enjoy being made our bitch. I figured, eh, I get to become Batman and shoot guns a lot, so why not?"

"I'd say I owe you a drink after what we've been through," Johnson offered. He nodded to the Bartender. Davidson shook his head.

"Nah man, I don't drink any more. I need a clear head to keep focus out here. I have one good leg, and by the grace of God, I intend to only have ONE good leg. I don't need to go all robo-cop out here. There's some bad juju around."

"Alright, well it is great seeing you. I'll have to hit you up later, bunch of shit going down." Johnson shook the hand of Davidson, then walked away. Last time they had met, Davidson had one less leg, now however he seems better than ever. This also raised the thoughts into Johnson's mind as to whether or not any other members were still alive. Perhaps it wasn't nearly as botched of an operation as he had originally expected.

Johnson met the Lieutenant and was extremely unimpressed. The LT was apparently an LT because he had seen the most war movies. He had an exaggerated sense of military service, and what a leader actually is. Johnson found everything that Meehan did to be annoying, and any orders given were easily ignored. When Meehan tried to get physical, Johnson simply knocked him to the floor and reminded him that he didn't have time for that. The man knew little to nothing about real-world combat besides bullying the weak, and appearing tough with a large gun. The weapon that Meehan had was clearly poorly maintained, and was as likely to get Meehan killed as it was the guy on the other end of the weapon.

Johnson could definitely get used to the fresh food in the place. Even though he ate that disgusting crap all the time, he learned quickly in the field that the best food was always a hot meal that was made fresh. He learned that in the military, and the end of the world only reaffirmed this. Johnson enjoyed the fresh steak he had. Although never a steak person before, simply having juicy red meat was absolutely divine. Even more divine was the fact that it was free. That made ANYTHING taste at least a little better. He enjoyed this steak with a side of stale potato chips, and a fresh apple. He then downed the meal altogether with an ice-cold nuka cola. Cold drinks had seemed to go extinct, but fortunately, some beautiful people found ways to insure that the cold soda would still survive to go on and bless many more people with its presence.

After downing the Soda, he simply walked into the gentlemen's club. He thought that perhaps, some of the women would get his attention off of the task at hand and help him relax and steady himself. He was wrong. The entire time he was there, he didn't look at a single lady. He felt...unclean. His very presence in the room through him off, and made him anxious. He thought of home the entire time, and how he had gotten to the situation he was in it. He ended up leaving no more than five minutes after he had originally entered. He decided to simply head back to his room. He spent the rest of the evening just sitting there. He checked, then double checked, then triple checked his weapons. He had a cleaning kit for both his weapons, so he made sure to extensively use it on them. There was no way that a rifle and a pistol could be any more clean than they were now, especially given the circumstances. At the same time, he made sure that even his knife was cleaned and polished. It had seen A LOT of wear and tear lately, and Johnson had to sharpen it. It was beginning to lose the serrated edge due to the large amount of animal skinning that Johnson had done. In the end, he probably wouldn't need it, but it still could come in useful one day. Polished to a fine silver, the gray shined in the light of the room. There was a window in his room, and Johnson used it to look outside. The sky was a light tan and green. The planet clearly felt the scars of humanity's wanton destruction against her. Her ecology decimated, her atmosphere ravaged, her very existence completely compromised. Eventually, Johnson left the view of utter destruction, and went to bed. He again had a night without the plague of dreams.

He awoke to an insufferable asshole beating on his door. "Wake up buttercup! It's go time!" Johnson quickly stirred to his feet, and grabbed his weapon. He slid on his balaclava that had accompanied the helmet, and then put on a pair of goggles for eye protection. Finally, he slid his helmet onto his head, and gave it a tap to make sure it was secure, then exited the room.

"Just like old times, right Sergeant?"

"Yeah. Just like old times."

The targeted casino itself was nothing more than a run down old building. There was a single guard out front, but the first shot from Meehan with a rifle round. His head disintegrated into putty, then the squad advanced to the doorway. As they stacked up, they each tapped each other's shoulder from the man in the rear to the man in the front. Davidson nodded, then moved in front of the door. He gave it a mule kick, then slid out of the way. The men entered the room, quickly assessing and firing at any one who had been seen as a threat. The casino was slowly cleared this way, room by room, until they came to what appeared to be a large banquet hall. As they entered the room, Jenner was the first man forward. As he entered, he took a round to chest and fell over bleeding. Meehan freaked out during this time, and refused to enter the room.

"Come on Meehan! Get in there! Let's go!" Johnson ordered.

"HELL NO! I ain't gettin' shot!" Meehan replied.

"If they don't shoot you, I WILL, now go!"

"Fuck this!" Meehan took off. Johnson looked to Davidson as he raised his weapon.

"Nah, he isn't worth it man. Let's just go." Davidson looked to him, then nodded. Johnson suddenly produced a stick from Jenner's person. He unbuckled his helmet, and put it on the stick and slowly poked it out of the doorway. A large burst of fire took the helmet and spun it around ferociously. Johnson decided that enough was enough. He looked to Davidson, made two fists, then moved one quickly past the other. Davidson tossed him a hand grenade in response. Johnson nodded then pulled the pin and tossed it in.

"What in the F-" the man was interrupted by an explosion. Johnson quickly ran into the room and fired at the machine gunner encamped there. The man had been using an old soviet-era light machine gun which explained for its large amount of pain. Johnson checked the body, and it had an ID. It was no one but Mr. Vasily himself. Suddenly, without warning, his eyes burst home. He let out a snarl and produced a knife and swung it upwards. It connected with Johnson's arm. Johnson let out a growl in reply as his assailant twisted the knife out and went for another attack. This time however, Johnson was ready. He backed up and kicked Alexei straight in the nuts. This made Alexei gasp in pain, like most people would when given a boot to the baby maker. Before he could react, Johnson drew his side arm and fired four rounds into him, this time making sure he was dead.

"Hot damn, he nicked me good right there. Can't believe I got so careless..."

"Really? I got my leg blown off by a gauss rifle, and you get clipped by a butter knife? Quit yer cryin. Here, let me patch you up." Davidson produced a sterile bandage and a stimpack. First, bandaging the wound to make sure that the wound would be protected, then he injected the delicious blend of anti-bacterials and stimulants into Johnson's arm. It would help the body repair itself, and at the same time, form a chemical barrier against most forms of pathogens.

"So, it's about time you tell me, what the hell are you doing out here?"

"Well, a bit of this and that. You?"

"I'm trying to get to Raven Rock. Say, would you accompany me? This entire country is so god damned fucked up, I'll need the best watching my back."

"If I have to keep dragging your ass around like this, I'll be pissed." Johnson laughed at his remark. It was time to wrap things up here in New Reno, then he would be able to proceed as planned. There was a long road ahead. At least now, in theory, it wouldn't be a lonesome road.

**Sorry for the long delay again peeps. You know how I said it would be a normal schedule once again? Well apparently I had lied :3****. ****I did not want to lie, but I did. This chapter was odd for me to write, and it felt like it was missing some of that special seasoning I like to sprinkle over it. I hope you enjoy the chapter, but honestly it didn't feel right. I did, however enjoy the twist that I had induced there. Also, there is a special cookie for any special forces slogans that you noticed mentioned in this chapter and in the last. As always, I hope you all have a pleasant evening and a wonderful tomorrow. Also, congratulations on having the last chapter get the strongest view count evar. Over 200 beautiful people decided to tune into either one or more of the chapters, job well done. Job well done.**


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